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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR: 

MIRACLES 

PAST  AND    PRESENT. 

r 

I  vol.^  i2fno,  $2.00. 


'  "The  book  is  written  thoughtfully  and  reverently.  It  is  a  sharp,  clear, 
incisive  book,  full  of  suggestions  and  spurs  to  thought.  We  do  not  know 
what  the  author's  religious  relationships  are,  nor  do  we  care." 

American  Churchman. 

Ear  sale  hy  booksellers.     Sent  post-paid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
Publishers, 

JAMES    R.    OSGOOD    &    CO. 

BOSTON. 


EUTHANASY 


OR 


HAPPY  TALK  TOWARDS   THE 
END  OF  LIFE 


BY 


WILLIAM   MOUNTFORD 


BOSTON 

JAMES    R.  OSGOOD  AND   COMPANY 

1874 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

Wm.  Crosby  and  H.  P.  Nichols, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Maasachusetta 


aiVEasn>£,  cahbridqe: 

8TERK0TTP£D    AND    PRINTED  BT 
H.  O.   HOUOHTON  AND   OOMPANT. 


i 


PEEFACE. 


As  to  this  book,  continuity  of  issue  from 
the  press  ended  with  the  last  copy  of  the 
sixth  edition,  about  twelve  years  ago,  acci- 
dentally. And  now,  with  its  being  published 
afresh,  the  author  feels  as  though  he  were 
editing  his  own  earlier  self,  or  some  kind  of  a 
stranger ;  and  he  feels  also  inclined  to  write 
a  few  lines  after  of  the  manner  of  that  book 
which  John  Henry  Newman  wrote  about  him- 
self, and  called  Apologia  pro  Vita  Sua. 

That  my  theology  is  more  largely  informed 
than  when  I  wrote  this  volume,  I  certainly 
hope.  And  it  may  be,  as  Ralph  Cudwortli 
might  have  said,  that  I  see  now  further  into 
the  Intellectual  System  of  the  Universe  than 
I  did  as  a  younger  man.  And  perhaps  as  to 
hum.an  nature,  for  possibilities,  I  think  now, 
more  grandly  than  I  once  did,  and  also  more 


411363 


'RE  FACE. 


meanly,  much.  But  after  years  of  study  in 
this  country,  and  of  thoughtfulness  in  foreign 
lands,  I  am  glad  to  believe  that  in  this  work 
there  is  nothing  which  I  would  wish  to  retract, 
either  as  to  sentiment  or  statement.  I  may 
some  time  publish  a  book  akin  to  this ;  and  if 
ever  I  should,  perhaps  it  may  be  found  to 
have  been  written,  so  to  say,  in  a  larger  hand 
than  this  is.  And  perhaps  I  sympathize 
now  with  Henry  More,  as  to  the  philosophy 
of  religion,  more  thoroughly  than  even  I  did 
when  I  wrote  the  dialogvie  on  the  "•  Song  of 
the  Soul." 

Richard  Baxter  and  Henry  More  were 
friends.  Ecclesiastically  my  descent  is  from 
Baxter ;  and  indeed  I  was  baptized  at  the 
ancient  font  at  which  he  was  the  minister  for 
many  years.  As  to  his  theology,  there  are 
what  some  persons  would  call  technicalities, 
which  I  never  owned  to,  while  yet  the  spirit 
of  it  has  always  been  mine.  And  it  may 
be  that  I  think,  as  he  would  have  said,  that 
no  better  thing  can  even  the  best  man  do  for 


PREFACE.  ▼ 

his  fellow-creatures,  or  more  costly  even, 
sometimes,  than  to  tell,  on  his  best  under- 
standing of  it,  what  the  witness  has  been 
which  the  Spirit  has  borne  with  his  spirit,  as 
to  the  world  and  life  and  death. 

No  long  while  ago  I  published  a  volume, 
which  drew  for  me  letters  of  sympathy  or 
articles  of  printed  praise  from  some  of  the 
foremost  divines  of  nearly  all  the  chief  Prot- 
estant denominations  in  the  Christian  Church, 
and  also  from  two  or  three  persons  who  did 
not  well  know  whether  they  were  Christians 
or  not.  All  that  was  very  gratifying,  as  giv- 
ing me  a  quick  sense  of  my  belonging,  per- 
haps, to  that  Church  Universal  which  is  only 
known  of,  really,  to  eyes  that  see  not  as  man 
sees.  But  for  recognition,  m  a  literary  way, 
never  has  anything  touched  me  more  ten- 
derly than  what  happened  to  me  one  morn- 
ing in  winter,  at  the  door  of  a  church.  There 
a  father  accosted  me  and  told  me  that  he 
had  just  lost  his  little  daughter,  at  the  age  of 
twelve  years.     And  he  said  that  for  several 


VI  PREFACE. 

weeks  before  her  death  she  was  wanthig 
continually  to  have  this  book  read  to  her, 
saying  that  though  she  could  not  always 
understand  it,  yet  that  she  was  seldom  baffled 
by  merel}^  a  hard  word.  That  poor  father, 
who  he  was,  or  where  he  is,  or  how  worthily 
he  has  borne  his  trouble,  I  do  not  know. 

Some  incidents  interesting  and  curious  as 
connected  with  this  volume,  have  come  to  my 
knowledge.  Of  these  I  cannot  here  refrain 
from  telling  of  one.  While  I  was  inditing  this 
book,  I  was  living  in  a  cottage  among  orchard- 
trees,  just  outside  of  wliat  had  been  the  for- 
tifications of  an  old  town,  on  the  eastern  coast 
of  England.  And  there,  one  day,  I  received 
a  letter  from  London  suggesting  to  me  the 
writing  of  such  a  work  as  this,  and  telling  me 
of  a  very  eminent  publisher  who  would  be 
willing  to  accept  it.  The  name  of  the  writer 
was  Edwin  Wilkins  Field.  The  signature 
was  for  me  a  name  and  no  more.  At  that 
time,  however,  actually,  it  was  the  name  of  a 
lawyer    greatly    distinguished.      Afterwards 


ritKFACK.  Vll 


Mr.  Field  as  a  law-reformer  became  illus- 
trious. And  probably  his  name  will  last  as 
long  as  the  New  Courts  of  Justice,'  which  are 
now  being  erected  in  London.  He  was  a 
man  for  business,  with  all  the  energy  of  Oli- 
ver Cromwell,  from  whom  he  was  descended  ; 
and  yet,  too,  he  was  a  man  with  such  a  taste 
for  art  as  drew  for  him  the  friendship  of 
nearly  every  great  painter  in  England.  He 
was  profoundly  religious  ;  and  also,  he  was 
very  generous,  in  the  grand  sense  of  the  word. 
His  home  was  at  Hampstead,  which  is  one  of 
the  suburbs  of  London ;  but  he  had  also  a 
country-house  on  the  Thames,  to  which  he 
was  fond  of  resorting  for  any  holiday  which 
he  could  take  in  his  busy  life.  The  follow- 
ing quotations  are  from  a  memoir  by  the 
editor  of  the  ''  Diary  and  Reminiscences  of 
Henry  Crabb  Robinson."  ^ 

"  One  who  worked  with  him,  in   regard  to   the 
Law  Courts,  says :  '  We  had  been  speaking,  soon 

1  Edwin  WUkim  Field.    A  Memorial  Sketch,  by  Thomas  Sad- 
ler, Ph.  D.     London:    Macmillan  &  Co.    1872. 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

after  the  beginning  of  our  work,  of  the  time  it 
would  take  to  get  the  buildings  up.  I  mentioned 
ten  or  fifteen  years  at  the  very  least.  He  replied : 
'  Then  I  shall  never  see  them.'  I  earnestly  pro- 
tested against  that.  His  only  answer  was  a  quiet 
smile  and  an  indescribable  expression  of  the  eye, 
which  struck  me  very  much,  but  which  I  never 
quite  understood,  till  at  his  funeral  I  heard  what 
his  thoughts  and  feelings  had  been  respecting 
death. 

"  He  was  so  much  pleased  with  the  sentiments 
expressed  on  death  in  a  work  published  many 
years  since,  entitled  '  Martyria,'  that  he  urged  the 
author  to  write  a  fuller  work  on  the  subject,  and 
call  it  '  Euthanasy.'  It  was  written,  and  had  in- 
deed already  been  begun ;  and  was  always  a  favor- 
ite with  him  who  had  suggested  it.  He  was  reading 
it  to  his  wife,  the  last  morning  he  was  alive,  while 
he  was  waiting  for  the  train  which  was  to  bring 
two  of  his  clerks.  And  he  read  aloud  and  marked 
the  following  passage  :  '  Of  life  in  every  way,  we 
must  say  that  we  cannot  tell  how  it  is.  And  yet 
there  are  persons  that  shrink  from  the  future  life, 
and  some   that  do  not  believe  it,  because  they  do 


PREFACE.  ix 

not  see  in  what  way  it  will  be ;  while  yet  what 
the  way  is  of  the  very  life  they  are  in,  they  can- 
not tell.' 

"  Of  the  accident,  which  soon  followed,  the  par- 
ticulars known  are  too  imperfect  to  afford  a  clear 
explanation  of  the  fatal  issue.  That  on  July  3()th, 
1871,  after  luncheon,  Mr.  Field  and  the  two  clerks, 
one  of  them.  Ell  wood,  the  first  he  ever  had,  went 
out  for  a  sail  in  the  Taiikee;  that  about  a  mile  from 
home  the  boat  was  upset  by  a  gust  of  wind  ;  that 
the  three  at  first  clung  to  the  boat,  and  one  of 
them  lost  his  hold  and  sank ;  that  they  were 
afterwards  together,  the  one  who  had  lost  his  hold, 
and  who  could  not  swim,  supported  by  Mr.  Field 
and  Mr.  Ell  wood,  both  of  whom  could  swim  ;  that 
they  were  making  for  the  shore  —  that  on  the  way 
Mr.  Ellwood  sank,  and  almost  immediately  after- 
wards Mr.  Field  also  ;  that  the  clerk  who  could 
not  swim  was  picked  up  by  a  boat  when  he  was 
at  the  point  of  sinking ;  that  in  the  chain  of  con- 
sciousness of  the  survivor,  there  had  been  too 
many  missing  Unks  for  him  to  be  able  to  give 
a  connected  and  complete  account  of  what  hap- 
pened ;  —  is  all  there  is  to  tell. 


X  PREFACE. 

"  We  have  lost  a  man  of  rare  ability  and  a  dear 
friend,  whom  we  could  ill  spare  ;  but  in  his  eu- 
thanasy  the  lines  on  his  sketching-book  have  at^ 
tained  their  full  meaning. 

"  Now  thanks  to  Heaven,  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  brought  me  to  this  pleasant  place  ; 
Joy  have  I  had  :  and  going  hence, 
I  bear  away  my  recompense." 

Authorship  in  earnest  is  liable,  like  apos- 
tleship,  to  incur  sore  trials  ;  but  also,  now  and 
then,  it  has  its  own  peculiar  reward. 

This  book  got  for  me  a  wide  acquaintance, 
and  also  some  friends.  But  of  those  friends, 
a  large  part  now  have  ceased  from  the  body, 
been  sublimed,  and  become  invisible.  But 
they  are  not  lost  either  to  me  or  the  world. 
For  no  doubt  they  remember  the  earth  on 
which  they  were  cradled,  and  the  fellow- 
believers  through  whom,'  with  earnest  talk, 
their  souls  grew  tiie  stronger.  And  no  doubt, 
also,  the  affinities  through  which  souls  ap- 
proximate one  another  in  the  life  that  now  is, 
will  avail  in  the  life  which  is  to  come,  for 


PKKFACE. 


drawing  old  friends  together,  as  being  natives 
of  the  same  globe,  and  persons  of  a  like  spirit. 

Oh  the  people  I  recall  here,  and  their 
images  !  Authors  of  renown  and  great  preach- 
ers, and  also  one  or  two  artists  !  And  oh,  the 
honorable  women,  not  a  few  !  And  I  remem- 
ber, also,  here,  two  or  three  men  who  were 
greater  than  what  they  seemed  ;  for  they  had 
such  a  sense  of  this  earth,  as  a  broad  stepping- 
stone  to  heaven,  that  they  could  not  scuffle 
on  it,  for  place,  or  strive. 

It  is  conjectured  from  below,  and  it  is  re- 
vealed from  above  ;  and  there  certainly  is  a 
New  Jerusalem,  which,  as  to  this  earth,  is 
the  city  of  the  Living  God  ;  and  it  waits  and 
widens  for  the  spirits  of  just  men  made  per- 
fect, as  they  depart  this  world,  schooled  by 
the  laws  of  nature,  and  graced  and  quickened 
from  on  high.  W.  M. 

Boston,  Nircember  2,  1873. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER    I. 

PAG8 

On  Old  Age  —  The  State  of  Religion.  —  On  Affliction  1 

CHAPTER  II. 
Tmst  in  the  Mystcriousness  of  Life      ....        19 

CHAPTER  III. 

The  Hopefulness  of  Spring-time.  —  The  Death  of  Birds 
and  Flowers.  —  On  Prayer.  —  The  Hope  of  Immor- 
tality   28 

CHAPTER   IV. 

The  Dread  of  becoming  afraid  of  Death.  —  Death  as  Nat- 
ural as  Life 37 

CHAPTER  V. 
)n  Faith  in  a  Future  Life,  and  how  to  increase  it         .        47 

CHAPTER  VI. 
On  Resignation 57  ^ 


« 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 
A  Dream fi2 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

On  living  in  the  Thought  of  Mortality. — Death  a  New 
Birth ...        70 

CHAPTER  IX. 
On  some  Unfinished  Works  o*"  Genius  ...        77 

CHAPTER  X. 
On  Despondency 90 

CHAPTER  XI. 
The  Soul  consciously  Immortal 95 

CHAPTER  XII. 
Recollections  and  Thoughts  on  a  Birtliday    .        .        .101 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
Death  to  be  waited  for  in  Faith 118 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  Remembrances  of  Youth,  Pain,  Pleasure,  and  Depart- 
ed Friends.  —  On  Old  Age.  —  Anticipations  of  Heaven. 
—  Listening  to  the  Past 122 

CHAPTER  XV. 
Misfortune  a  Test  of  Character.  —  Uses  of  Old  Age     .      135 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
A  Sermon 143 


CONTENTS.  XV 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
On  Poverty.  —  Posthumous  Influence.  —  Life  after  Death  IGl 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

l)n  Knowledge  of  Human  Nature.  —  Shakspeare.  —  Ever- 
lastingness  of  Ti-uth.  —  Heirship  of  the  Past  176 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

On  Flowers  and  on  Beauty.  —  York  Minster  —  God  in 
Nature.  —  The  Witness  of  the  Spirit  —  The  Feeling  of 
Infinity 195 

CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Swiftness  of  Time.  —  On  Heaven.  —  The  Vastness 
pf  the  Universe.  —  Knowledge  projiortioned  to  Duty. — 
The  Wisdom  of  Humility. —  The  Will  of  God.  — On 
George  Herbert 209 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
The  Uncertainty  of  Life 226 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
On  the  Feeling  of  Beauty 229 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 

Plotinus.  —  George  Fox.  —  Henry  More.  —  The  Song  of 
the  Soul.  —  Gratitude  to  Great  Authors     .         .         .       240 

CHAPTER   XXIV 

Human  Greatness.  —  Humility.  —  God  in  the  Soul.  —  Na- 
ture and  the  Soul.—  Faitli  in  Clnl.<Jt.  —  Religious  Mel- 
ancholy        .         .       262 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XXV. 

The  World  full  of  Promise.  — Man  made  for  IInpj>in<!ss. 
—  On  Sympathy  with  Others.  —  What  Heaven  will  l>e    281 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

One  Spirit  in  Men.  —  One  Meaning  of  Heroic  Lives.  — 
On  Art. —  On  Civilized  Life.  —  The  Human  Hand.  — 
The  Present  Life  suggestive  of  the  Next  .        .        .291 

CHAPTER  XXVn. 
On  Action.  —  The  Way  of  Pmvidence  in  Life     .         .      S07 

CHAPTER  XXVin. 

On  Creation.  —  Tlie  Law  of  Progression.  —  Man  the  In- 
finity of  God's  Purpose  in  the  World         .  .317 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  End  of  Summer. — Perfect  Love.  —  Hope  of  Immor- 
tality. —  On  Spiritual  Longing  ....      332 

CHAPTER   XXX. 

Dying  daily.  —  Changes  of  Feeling.  —  Old  Age.  —  On 
Affliction 342 

CHAPTER  XXXI 
Patience.  —  Readiness  for  Heaven.  —  Immortivlity        .      3.'>8 

CHAPTER  XXXn. 

The  Effects  of  Prayer.  —  How  to  grow  in  Faith. —  En- 
durance and  Forgiveness.  —  Righteous  Failures.  —  The 
Good  of  Affliction.  —  On  Sincerity.  —  On  Troubles.  — 
On  Music.  —  The  Thought  of  God.  —  The  Instinct  of 
Praver.  —  The  Wonder  of  this  Present  Life      .         .      3\ih 


CONTENTS.  XVa 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

On  Embalming.  —  Right  Thoughts  about  the  Dead.  —  On 
Hodily  Changes.  —  Spirit  its  own  Evidence  — How  the 
Body  lives.  —  On  Burial 389 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
On  Epitaphs.  —  How  some  Men  have  wished  to  die      .      398 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
The  Last  Vision  of  Tasso     •        .       7        .        .        .408 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Nature  in  Autumn.  —  A  City  renewing  its  Population. — 
Thoughts  of  Ancient  Times.  —  Another  Life  in  Justice 
to  this.  —  The  Witness  of  the  Spirit.  —  Faith  in  God. 
—  Expectation  of  Death 431 

CHAPTER  XXXVn. 
On  Nature  and  Man.  —  On  Memory     .  .  449 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Human  Evanescence.  —  The  Stars.  —  Mysteriousness  of 
Life.  —  God  in  Nature 463 

CHAPTER  XXXLX. 
A  Scene  revisited.  —  A  fine  Day.  —  On  Old  Age         .      475 

CHAPTER  XL. 
On  the  Love  of  Life.  —  On  Virtue  and  Vice         .        .      484 

CHAPTER   XLI. 
Seven  Conclusions  from  a  Week  of  Sad  Evenings        .      491 


XVlll  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    XLII. 
Thoughts  while  in  Pain 45)4 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  Manifold  World.  — On  Fitness  for  Heaven.— The 
Recognition  of  Friends  hereafter  —  Kindred  to  the 
Blessed  Great 5<)1 


EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER   I. 


A  soul  by  force  of  sorrows  high 

Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 

Of  undisturbed  humanity.  —  Wordsworth. 

There  never  lived  a  mortal,  who  bent 
Hi3  appetite  beyond  his  natural  sphere, 
But  starved  and  died.  —  Keats. 

May  you  never 
Regret  those  hours  which  make  the  mind,  if  they 
Unmake  the  body ;  for  the  sooner  we 
Are  fit  to  be  all  mind,  the  better.     Blest 
Is  he  whose  heart  is  the  home  of  the  great  dead, 
And  their  great  thoughts.  —  Bailey. 


MARHAM. 

Now,  Oliver,  you  are  settled  with  me,  to  live 
with  me  as  long  as  I  live  myself.  And  that 
is  your  side  of  the  fireplace,  and  that  is  your 
chair.  And  a  comfortable  room  this  library  is  ; 
is  it  not  ?  There  shall  be  a  sofa  brought  into  it, 
and  every  thing  else  that  will  be  for  your  com- 
fort shall  be  got.  And  here  will  we  wait  till  our 
change  come,  for  many,  many  pleasant  hours,  I 
1 


EUTHANASy. 


hope.  For  me,  Oliver,  it  is  a  happiness  to  see 
you  so  resigned.  And  to  hear  you  talk  does  me 
good.  But  it  is  of  little  use  my  company  can 
be  to  you.  I  am  old,  and  1  am  older  than  my 
years,  I  think.  I  am  not  the  man  I  was  once. 
Still,  I  am  not  declining  into  second  childhood 
yet,  I  hope. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  you  are  not,  and  never  are  to  be,  I 
hope  ;  though,  if  you  were,  it  would  not  be  a 
thing  to  be  mourned  for,  dear  uncle,  would  it  ^ 
For  the  second  childhood  of  a  saint  is  the  early 
infancy  of  a  happy  immortality,  as  we  believe. 

MARHAM. 

What  you  say  does  cheer  me  so,  Oliver  ! 
But,  indeed,  I  am  often  distressed  at  being  so 
useless  in  my  old  age. 

AUBIN. 

Useless  !  You  are  of  great  use,  uncle  Ste- 
phen, you  really  are.  How  are  you  useful  ?  By 
being  a  man  that  is  old.  Your  old  age  is  a  pub- 
lic good.  It  is,  indeed.  For  out  of  all  the  boys 
and  girls,  and  young  men  and  women  of  this 
neighbourhood,  probably  not  ten,  and  perhaps  not 
even  one,  will  ever  be  as  old  as  you.  But  some- 
thing of  the  good  of  old  age  they  may  all  get, 
through  sympathy  with  you.  No  child  ever  lis- 
tens to  your  talk  without  having  a  good  done  it 
that  no  schooling  could  do.     When  you  are  walk- 


EUTHANASY.  6 

mg,  no  one  ever  opens  a  gate  for  you  to  pass 
through,  and  no  one  ever  honors  you  with  an}' 
kind  of  help,  without  being  himself  the  better 
for  what  he  does  ;  for  fellow-feeling  with  you 
ripens  his  soul  for  him.  At  the  longest,  I  cannot 
have  long  to  live  ;  and  I  shall  never  be  old. 
But  through  living  with  you,  uncle,  and  loving 
you,  I  hope  to  understand,  and  feel,  and  make 
my  own,  those  changes  which  come  over  the 
soul  with  length  of  life. 

MARHAM. 

When  the  powers  of  the  body  fail,  the  feelings 
do  alter  much  ;  and  with  me  they  grow  melan- 
choly, which,  perhaps,  they  should  not  do.  But 
they  are  sad  experiences,  when  sight  and  hearing 
and  motion  fail. 

AUBIN. 

Not  sad,  uncle  Stephen,  but  serious  ;  and  not 
so  serious  as  solemn.  Is  your  eyesight  dimmer  ? 
Then  the  world  is  seen  by  you  in  a  cathedral 
light.  Is  your  hearing  duller  ?  Then  it  is  just 
as  though  you  were  always  where  loud  voices 
and  footsteps  ought  not  to  be  heard.  Is  your 
temper  not  as  merry  as  it  was  once  ?  Then  it  is 
more  solemn  ;  so  that  round  you  the  common 
atmosphere  feels  like  that  of  the  house  of  the 
Lord.  Yes,  for  twilight  and  silence  and  solem- 
nity, old  age  makes  us  like  daily  dwellers  in  the 
house  of  the  Lord  ;    and   a  mortal  sickness  does 


4  EUTHANASY. 

this,  sometimes,  as  well  as  old  age.  But  it  is  our 
own  thoughts  that  have  to  supply  the  service, 
and  our  own  hearts  that  have  to  make  the  music 
triumphant,  or  else  like  a  dirge.  And  the  ser- 
mon is  preached  to  us  by  conscience  from  some 
text  taken  out  of  the  book  of  our  remembrance. 
While  to  it  all.  Amen  has  to  be  said  by  our- 
selves ;  and  when  it  is  said  gladly,  then  there 
is  an  echo  to  it  in  heaven,  and  joy  among  the 
angels. 

MARHAM. 

You  are  so  at  home  in  religion,  Oliver  !  And 
that  is  why  your  talk  pleases  me  so  much,  I  think. 
For  with  most  persons,  it  is  as  though  they  had 
forced  themselves  to  be  religious. 

AUBIN. 

At  present,  in  men's  minds,  religion  is  not  as 
spontaneous  as  poetry  is  ;  and,  indeed,  is  not 
genial  at  all. 

MARHAM. 

And  in  this  room  are  books  which  are  weary 
reading  to  us,  but  which,  a  hundred  years  ago, 
our  forefathers  wept  over,  and  prayed  upon,  and 
thanked  God  for. 

AUBIN. 

We  cannot  feel  as  they  did,  because  we  do 
not  think  as  they  thought.  Once,  men  thought 
themselves  to  be  the  only  creatures  in  a  state  of 
probation ;    and   this  little  earth  was  fancied  to  be 


C 


EUTHANASY. 


almost  the  only  spot,  excepting  hell,  that  was  not 
heaven.  From  astronomy,  we  know  this  to  have 
been  an  error.  And  many,  very  many  things 
which  our  forefathers  were  sure  of  one  way,  in 
science  and  philosophy,  we  are  sure  of  otherwise. 
And  so,  under  these  errors,  what  they  said  and 
wrote  religiously  is  either  lower  than  our  feel- 
ing, or  else  beside  it.  But  some  time  religion 
will  be  famiHar  to  men  again,  although  we  have 
got  among  different  circumstances  from  what  our 
fathers  worshipped  in  ;  for  there  is  religion  in  all 
things,  just  as  there  is  poetry,  though  as  yet  it 
is  waiting  to  be  discovered  ;  but  when  once  it 
has  been  found,  all  persons  will  see  it  at  last, 
and  it  will  be  natural  to  them.  Immortality  is 
not  now  believed  in,  commonly,  in  the  manner 
it  ought  to  be.  The  doctrine  of  it  wants  to  be 
familiarized  into  feeling  ;  and  especially,  I  think, 
there  want  to  be  developed  such  corroborations 
of  the  great  truth  as  are  latent  in  science,  his- 
tory, philosophy,  and  in  the  fresh  experiences 
which,  as  human  beings,  we  are  always  passing 
through.  The  Greek  Gospels  require  to  be  made 
English,  for  common  use  ;  and  for  daily,  homely 
feeling,  the  great  doctrine  of  immortality  wants 
familiarizing. 

MARHAM. 

You  are  hinting  at  what  would  be  as  great  as  a 
new  Reformation  in  the  Church. 


b  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

And  greater,  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

There  is  no  chance  of  it,  I  am  afraid. 

AUBIN. 

There  was  none  of  Luther,  till  he  was  born. 
Religion  will  be  natural  to  men  again  ;  and  he 
that  is  merry  will  sing  psalms  yet.  And  even  the 
soul  is  growing,  perhaps,  that  is  to  bless  the  world 
this  way. 

MARHAM. 

And  it  will  be  soon,  we  will  hope,  and  with  a 
welcome. 

AUBIN. 

That  will  not  be  ;  for  to  bless  the  world  im- 
plies being  above  it,  and  to  be  above  the  world 
is  to  have  few  or  no  friends  in  it.  For  the  first 
of  the  earnest  believers  that  are  to  be,  we  will 
wish  some  likely  thing,  and  what  they  will  want ; 
we  will  wish  them  courage  to  speak  on,  though 
it  seem  to  be  to  the  winds,  and  courage  enough 
to  think  of  dying  in  a  garret  at  last,  without  being 
frightened. 

MARHAM. 

I  must  hope  the  world  is  better  than  you  think 
it,  Oliver.  Though  your  experience  of  it  has 
been  very  disheartening. 

AUBIN. 

Nay,  dear  uncle,  I  was  not  thinking  of  myself 
at  all. 


EUTHANASY.  7 

MARHAM. 

But,  Oliver,  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,  and 
what  you  had  to  bear. 

AUBIN. 

And  which  I  am  the  better  for.  Yes,  when  I 
remember  what  I  was,  I  am  sure  of  my  misfor- 
tunes having  been  messengers  to  me  from  God  ; 
for  they  were  so  exactly  suited  to  do  for  my  char- 
acter what  it  wanted. 

MARHAM. 

And  perhaps  the  greatest  grace  that  came  to 
you  from  God  was  willingness  to  knovv  those 
messengers. 

AUBIN. 

Poverty  came  to  me,  and  she  said,  "  I  must 
dwell  with  thee."  And  while  I  held  the  door  of 
my  room  half  open,  she  was  hideous  and  ragged, 
and  her  voice  was  hoarse.  But  when  I  said  to 
her,  '^Thou  art  my  sister,"  her  face  looked  di- 
vinely thoughtful,  and  there  was  that  in  her  voice 
which  went  to  my  heart,  and  she  was  ragged  no 
longer,  nor  yet  gay,  but  like  the  angels,  whom 
God  so  clothes.  And  through  looking  into  her 
eyes,  my  sight  was  cleared.  And  so  I  first  saw 
the  majesty  of  duty,  and  that  beauty  in  virtue 
which  is  the  reflection  of  the  countenance  of  God. 
For,  before  this,  my  eyes  could  see  only  what 
coarse  worth  there  is  in  medals,  and  stars,  and 
crowns,  and  in  such  character  as  gets  itself  talked 
of  and  apparelled  in  purple  and  fine  linen. 


a  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

0  Oliver ! 

AUBIN. 

1  was  ambitious,  uncle,  once  ;  very  greatly  so 
I  was.  And  from  my  own  knowledge,  I  know 
that  pride  is  a  fearful  peril.  I  was  a  student,  and 
truth  was  my  business  ;  but  now  it  seems  to  me 
that  I  must  have  loved  it  basely,  and  for  the  fame 
of  stamping  it  with  my  own  name. 

MARHAM. 

Hardly  so,  Oliver.  I  am  sure  you  judge  your- 
self not  justly.  For  the  love  of  fame  is  not  al- 
ways lust  of  flattery,  but  something  not  unwise 
nor  unhealthy.  For  fame  is  a  great  thing  for  a 
man  ;  it  is  silence  for  him,  when  he  wants  to 
speak  ;  it  is  a  pulpit  to  preach  from,  more  au- 
thoritative than  an  archbishop's  throne  ;  and  it  is 
affectionate  attention  from  a  multitude  of  hearers. 
Badly  ambitious  I  do  not  think  you  could  have 
been. 

AUBIN. 

My  ardor  was  too  much  of  a  worldly  fever,  as 
I  know  by  this  ;  that  when,  time  after  time,  Dis- 
appointment stepped  between  me  and  my  object, 
he  was  like  ice  to  my  heart.  But  now  I  can 
embrace  him  as  a  friend  ;  and  I  do  hold  him  as  a 
dear  friend ;  and  I  bless  God  for  his  having  found 
me.  Though  latterly  I  have  known  him  by  anoth- 
er than  the  mournful  name  by  which  he  is  called 
on  earth. 


EUTHANASY.  9 

MARHAM. 

You  have  been  afflicted,  and  it  is  a  ha|3py  thing 
for  you  to  feel  that  it  has  been  good  for  you.  As 
human  creatures,  we  have  all  of  us  to  suffer,  and 
to  have  some  of  our  dearest  plans  spoiled. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  well ;  for  if  we  could  be  half  suffi 
cient  to  ourselves,  we  should  soon  lose  the  secret 
sense  of  dependence  upon  God.  We  build  our 
plans  up  about  us,  and  so  we  shut  out  the  sight 
of  heaven,  and  very  soon  the  thought  of  it,  and 
we  say  to  ourselves  that  we  will  be  merry  with 
the  goods  we  shall  have  stored  up  with  us.  But 
some  earthquake  of  Providence  shakes  our  build- 
ing, and  overhead  it  is  unroofed,  and  the  walls  of 
it  give  way.  And  then  there  is  heaven  to  be 
seen  again,  and  infinity  is  open  round  us,  and  the 
dews  of  the  Divine  grace  can  fall  on  us  again, 
and  again  we  feel  ourselves  at  the  mercy  of  God, 
to  be  spared  from  cold,  and  storms,  and  enemies. 
And  so,  among  the  ruins  of  our  pride,  we  grow 
to  be  loving  children  of  the  Most  High,  instead 
of  worldly  creatures. 

MARHAM. 

And  you  have  felt  that.  But  now  you  will  be 
able  to  tell  me  all  your  experiences  ;  and  you 
must,  whenever  they  come  into  your  mind. 

AUBIN. 

For  some  time  I  have  wished  to  write  a  book 


10  ETITHANAiSV 

on  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  if  I  had  been 
well  enough,  I  should  have  done  it ;  for  I  think 
on  that  subject  I  could  write  as  not  many  have 
done.  I  have  been  without  a  friend  in  the  world. 
And  that  is  a  state  in  which  a  man  knows  wheth- 
er he  believes  in  God  or  not ;  for  if  he  does,  his 
soul  craves  God,  in  such  a  way  as  that  ahnost 
he  is  seen  in  the  clouds,  and  felt  in  the  air  and  in 
the  coming  of  thoughts  into  the  mind.  I  have 
known  the  want  of  food,  and,  one  whole  winter, 
the  want  of  warm  clothing  ;  and  I  have  known 
what  it  is  to  need  medical  help,  and  not  to  have 
it,  because  unable  to  pay  for  it. 

MARHAM. 

Have  you  } 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  I  have.  And  in  such  circumstances,  1 
know  that  life  looks  quite  another  thing  to  what 
it  does  to  a  man  at  ease. 

MARHAM. 

Poor  Oliver  !  life  must  have  looked  stern  to 
you,  very  stern. 

AUBIN. 

For  a  while  it  did,  and  then  it  grew  sublime ; 
for  I  saw  God  in  it  all.  And,  besides,  there  is 
in  the  soul  an  instinct  of  her  having  been  made 
for  a  foreordained  end,  of  her  having  been  cre- 
ated for  a  special  purpose,  which  only  she  her- 
self can  answer,  and  not  any  one  other  out  of  a 


EUTHANASY.  11 

hundred  million  other  souls.  So  the  more  lonely 
I  was,  and  the  poorer,  and  the  more  the  pain  in 
my  forehead  grew  like  the  pressure  of  a  crown  of 
thorns,  and  the  more  I  was  an  exception  among 
men,  so  much  the  more  1  was  persuaded  of  hav- 
ing a  destiny  of  my  own,  and  a  peculiar  one. 
And  1  said  to  rnyself,  '■'  What  1  am  to  be,  I  can 
suffer  for,  and  I  will."  So  as  my  lot  in  life  grew 
strange,  I  had  a  trembling  joy  in  it  for  the  sake 
of  what  I  thought  must  spiritually  come  of  it. 
But,  dear  uncle  !  those  tears,  —  I  cannot  bear 
them.  Besides,  I  am  happy  now.  And  now  our 
souls,  yours  and  mine,  have  found  one  another. 

MARHAM. 

But'  to  have  suffered  as  you  have,  and  been 
alone 

AUBIN. 

Lonelv  I  never  was  ;  indeed  I  was  not. 

MARHAM. 

For  God  was  with  you.  And  I  do  believe  he 
was. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  were  the  souls  of  many  samts,  and 
heroes,  and  noble  thinkers', — men  of  like  suffer- 
ings with  my  own. 

MARHAM. 

True  saints  and  true  heroes.  But  now,  Oli- 
ver, tell  me,  were  you  never  tempted  to  forego 
your  scruples,  and  enter 


12  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  not  for  a  moment. 

MARHAM. 

If  you  had  flattered  a  little,  or  been  less  nobly 
scrupulous,  your  genius  would  have  been  ac- 
knowledged and  well  paid  very  soon.  No  doubt 
you  felt  this  ;  and  was  not  it  ever  a,  temptation  ? 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

My  noble  boy  !  And  you  sat  down  so  long  to 
poor  food,  and  scanty,  perhaps. 

AUBIN. 

But  I  ate  it,  hke  the  sacrament,  in  a  high  com- 
munion of  soul.  For  sometimes  I  felt  as  though 
there  stood  about  me  Tasso,  and  others  like  him. 
And  I  thought  of  one  who  was  so  holy,  that 
priests  could  not  understand  him,  and  who  was 
therefore  so  poor  and  unfriended,  that  he  had  not 
where  to  lay  his  head  ;  I  thought  of  Christ  in  the 
wilderness,  hungry  and  alone. 

MARHAM. 

And  in  that  way  you  held  faithful  to  your  con- 
victions. 

AUBIN. 

Yes. 

MARHAM. 

And  yet,  —  am  I  right,  Oliver  ?  Surely  1 
must  be,  for  you  are  3''oung  still.  And  was  not  a 
home  sometimes  a  hope  with  you  ? 


EUTHANASY. 


13 


AUBIN. 

And  so  a  temptation  ?     No,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

But  with  such  prospects  as  I  found  you  with, 
you  must  have  been  in  dread  of  starvation,  as  not 
an  unlikely  thing  for  you  some  time. 

AUBIN. 

One  while  I  had  that  fear  ;  but  I  made  an  Ode 
to  the  Poor-house,  and  then  I  was  not  afraid  of 
poverty  any  more. 

MARHAM. 

What  do  you  mean  ? 

AUBIN. 

And  I  was  the  better  man,  besides.  I  mean, 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  die  in  rags  and  want, 
and  then  I  was  not  afraid  of  doing  so.  And  as 
soon  as  there  was  nothing  in  this  world  that  could 
frighten  me,  at  once,  with  ease  of  mind,  goodness 
grew  easier  with  me. 

MARHAM. 

Ease  of  mind  !  But  T  think  I  can  guess  at 
what  you  mean.  God  became  every  thing  to  you, 
as  the  world  grew  nothing. 

AUBIN. 

But  the  world  never  did  become  nothing  to 
me  ;  for  always,  even  from  the  middle  of  a  city, 
it  felt  great  and  wonderful  about  me  ;  but  when 
no  temporal  good  could  come  of  it  to  me,  then 
the  eternal  meaning  of  it  entered  my  soul  freshly 


1 4  EUTHANASY. 

every  day.  The  more  I  felt  the  world  was  not 
mine  at  all,  and  could  not  be,  the  more  blessedly 
I  felt  it  was  God's  ;  and  so,  another  way,  it  was 
mine  again,  gloriously. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  the  world  was  yours  through  not  being 
yours,  was  it  ?  Your  experience  was  like  St. 
Paul's,  —  as  having  nothing,  and  possessing  all 
things.  Have  you  the  Ode  to  the  Poor-house 
which  you  wrote  ?     I  should  like  to  see  it. 

AUBIN. 

I  have  not  it,  uncle.  You  think  the  writing  of 
It  a  curious  cure  for  poverty. 

MARHAM. 

But  before  writing  it,  your  feeling  of  misery 
must  have  been  abating. 

AUBIN. 

Yes.  As  soon  as  my  poverty  felt  poetical,  it 
ceased  to  be  only  wretched.  But  always  I  have 
found,  that  any  thing  bad  is  most  bearable  by 
knowing  the  worst  of  it,  — .by  thinking,  and  feel- 
ing, and  living  it  all  over. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  draining  the  cup  of  sorrow  at  a  manly 
draught. 

AUBIN. 

Many  years  ago,  when  my  mother  died,  I  was 
in  an  agony  of  grief  till  1  saw  her  body  and  held 
her  dead  hand,  and  then   1   was  calmed.      I  sup- 


EUTHANASY.  15 

pose  the  reason  of  it  was  this,  that  what  we  see 
with  our  eyes  is  seen  at  once  to  be  finite  ;  and 
finite  evil  but  serves  by  its  endurance  to  quicken 
into  intensity  that  presentiment  of  infinite  good 
which  has  been  made  instinctive  in  us. 

MARHAM. 

To  some  persons,  it  is  a  satisfaction  to  know 
the  worst,  because  it  is  never  so  bad  as  their 
fears  ;  and  others,  I  think,  Hke  to  know  it,  be- 
cause they  are  uneasy  at  any  thing  that  is  uncer- 
tain ;  and  others  like  to  know  it  for  other  reasons, 
perhaps. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps  so.  But  I  would  rather  think  that  all 
these  reasons  have  one  source,  and  from  it  I 
would  draw  this  truth,  or,  at  least,  some  confir- 
mation of  it,  that  the  inner  is  the  more  real  and 
the  intenser  world.  While  we  have  only  heard 
of  misfortune,  we  only  know  it  as  though  spirit- 
ually ;  and  the  unrestrained  grief  of  the  spirit, 
like  the  spirit  itself,  partakes  of  the  infinite.  But 
as  soon  as  with  our  bodily  eyes  we  see  an  evil, 
we  see  that  it  is  finite,  measurable,  little.  And 
then  against  this  littleness  the  soul  measures  her 
own  almost  infinite  power  of  endurance.  And 
from  this  comes  that  complacency,  that  almost 
joy  in  misfortune,  which  some  sufferers  have 
felt,  when  once  they  have  learned  the  worst 
of  it. 


16  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

0  Oliver  !  I  am  proud  of  what  you  are,  but 
over  what  you  have  been  as  a  sufferer  I  could 
cry  ;  and  yet  I  think  I  am  proud  of  that  too,  for 
you  are  my  sister's  son.  Oliver,  you  are  not 
well,  you  look 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  one  thing  I  have  to  ask  of  you,  and 
that  is,  that  you  will  not  for  a  while  ask  me  any 
thing  about  my  past  life.  1  can  think  it  over  on 
my  knees,  and  be  thankful  to  God  for  it  ;  but 
your  pitying  it  is  too  much  for  me.  For  I  have 
not  been  as  manful  as  you  think,  or  else  my  cour- 
age was  only  just  enough.  For  now  that  T  am 
out  of  my  troubles,  I  could  cry  for  hours  some- 
times, though  a  month  ago  I  could  have  said  that 
I  had  not  had  a  tear  in  my  eyes  for  years. 

MARHAM. 

And  now  you  are  ill.  O,  very  sorry  I  am 
that,  —  that 

AUBIN. 

That  I  should  only  have  been  helped  out  of 
my  wretchedness  just  against  my  death.  But  bet- 
ter men  than  I  will  die  in  worse  miseries  than 
mine  were. 

MARHAM. 

1  do  not  think  so,  Oliver,  and  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  believe  it.  For  I  have  never  heard  of 
another  instance   like  yours  in  all  my  life.     For 


E7THANASY.  17 

opportunity  to  help  a  good  man  and  a  man  of  ge- 
nius is  a  treasure 

AUBIN. 

Which  not  many  men  are  good  enough  to  val- 
ue. But  this  is  a  thing  which  it  is  better  not  to 
say,  even  if  quite  true.  And  so  I  will  not  say  it. 
For  the  soul  gets  embittered  with  saying  bitter 
things.  And  then  even  good  men  may  not  find 
one  another  out,  as  I  ought  to  remember  from 
the  way  in  which  even  you  and  I  did  not  know 
one  another  for  so  long,  and  never  should  have 
done  but  for  an  accident,  —  no,  a  providential 
event  ;  for  so  it  was  for  me. 

MARHAM. 

And  for  me,  too,  Oliver.  But  you  suffered  so 
strangely  !  Why,  O,  why  did  not  I  know  of  it, 
or  guess  it  ?  And  why  did  I  let  my  foolish  prej- 
udices, —  foolish  and  worse 

AUBIN. 

No,  dear  uncle,  uncle  Stephen  ;  do  not  talk  so. 
But  let  our  not  knowing  one  another  be  among 
the  strange  things  of  the  world,  and  they  are  very 
many.  Why  they  are  allowed,  we  cannot  tell 
always.  But  they  are  wisely  allowed,  no  doubt. 
Why,  why  is  this  ?  But  for  any  of  us  asking 
so,  there  is  no  special  answer  vouchsafed.  The 
wheels  of  the  universe  do  not  stop  for  us  to  ex- 
amine their  mechanism  ;  for  if  they  did,  there 
would  be  no  progress  ;  because,  at  every  moment, 
2 


18  EUTHANASY. 

the  self-will  of  some  creature  or  other  is  in  col- 
lision with  that  Divine  will  which  is  the  main- 
spring of  creation. 

MARHAM, 

It  does  my  heart  good,  and  it  does  my  soul 
good,  to  see  you  so  happy,  Oliver,  and  so  at 
peace  with  the  world,  after  having  been  so  hardly 
used  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

It  would  be  a  shame  if  I  were  not  so  ;  and  the 
more  I  have  suffered,  the  greater  shame.  Be- 
cause, with  a  Christian,  at  the  end  of  a  grievous 
trial,  and  when  the  soreness  of  it  is  abating,  there 
is  a  strange  and  sublime  experience.  There  is 
the  feeling  of  sorrow,  and  there  is  that  of  infinite 
goodness  ;  and  the  two  blend  into  a  conscious- 
ness like  that  of  having  been  just  about  to  be 
spoken  to  by  God.  And  this  is  not  a  deceptive 
feeling,  though  God  is  silent  towards  us  all  our 
lives  ;  for  with  him  a  thousand  years  are  as  one 
day  ;  and  when  he  will  justify  himself  to  us,  it 
will  not  be  our  fleshly  impatience  which  he  will 
address,  but  the  calm  estate  of  spirits  everlasting 
like  himself. 


EUTHANASY.  19 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  very  spirits  of  a  man  prey  upon  the  daily  portion  of  bread  and  flesh ; 
and  every  meal  is  a  rescue  from  one  death,  and  lays  up  for  another ;  and 
the  clock  strikes,  and  reckons  on  our  portion  of  eternity :  we  form  our 
words  with  the  breath  of  our  nostrils,  —  we  have  the  less  to  live  upon  for 
every  word  we  speak.  — Jeremy  Taylor. 

All  death  in  nature  is  birth,  and  in  death  appears  visibly  the  advance- 
ment of  life.  There  is  no  killing  principle  in  nature,  for  nature  through- 
out is  life  ;  it  is  not  death  which  kills,  but  the  higher  life,  which,  conceal- 
ed behind  the  other,  begins  to  develop  itself.  Death  and  birth  are  but  the 
struggle  of  life  with  itself  to  attain  a  higher  form.  —  J.  G.  f'icuTB. 

MARHAM. 

Out  of  our  hearts,  and  out  of  our  reasons, 
many  things  are  said  to  us  about  our  immortality  ; 
but  they  would  not  be  listened  to  believingly,  if  it 
were  not  for  our  Christian  courage.  Christ  said, 
that  because  he  hves  we  shall  live  also.  This  is 
what  emboldens  our  faith. 

AUBIN. 

Twice  did  Christ  enter  this  world,  and  twice 
did  he  depart  from  it,  and  so  the  other  world  and 
this  were  made  to  feel  the  nigher. 

MARHAM. 

Twice,  did  you  say,  that  Jesus  came  into  this 
life  ? 

AUBIN. 

Once  through  his  mother's  womb  and  his  moth- 


20  EUTHANASY. 

er's  cares,  and  once  from  withinside  the  grave  of 
the  Arimathean.  To  and  fro,  between  this  and 
the  other  world,  Christ  passed.  So  that  to  us 
believers  this  earth  feels  like  the  fore-court  of 
heaven,  and  death  like  the  door  into  eternity. 

MARHAM. 

At  that  door,  threescore  years  and  ten  make 
a  loud  knocking  for  me  ;  and  old  age  is  like  an 
anxious  waiting  for  the  door  to  open.  And  awful 
waiting  it  would  be,  were  it  not  for  Christ  inside. 
But  for  him,  it  would  be  dreadful  leaving  this 
known  for  the  unknown  world. 

AUBIN. 

This  known  world,  you  say.  But  now,  uncle, 
is  it  known  ?  No,  it  is  not.  It  feels  known,  be- 
cause we  feel  foolishly.  For  every  grain  of  sand 
is  a  mystery  ;  so  is  every  daisy  in  summer,  and 
so  is  every  snow-flake  in  winter.  Both  upwards 
and  downwards,  and  all  round  us,  science  and 
speculation  pass  into  mystery  at  last. 

MARHAM. 

We  will  say,  then,  that  this  world  is  little 
known,  and  the  other  still  less. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps  it  is  so. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  how  can  you  say  perhaps,  as 
though  you  were  not  sure  ? 

AUBIN. 

Nay,  but,  uncle,  how  can  T  be  sure  ? 


EUTHANASY.  21 

MARHAM. 

Very  easily,  I  should  think  ;  as  you  have  lived 
thirty  years  in  this  world,  and  into  the  other  have 
never  had  one  glance. 

AUBIN. 

But,  dear  uncle,  I  think  I  may  have  had.  For 
I  am  of  two  worlds,  matter  and  spirit.  With 
these  gray  eyes  I  have  never  known  the  world  of 
spirit,  but  known  it  I  have  through  certain  feel- 
ings, very  faintly,  and  yet  plainly,  as  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

But  still,  as  you  say,  very  faintly. 

AUBIN. 

And  very  little,  too,  is  my  knowledge  of  this 
world.  It  is  not  unlikely,  I  think,  on  my  dying, 
that  the  other  world  will  feel  as  familiar  to  me  as 
this  does.  For  body  and  breathing,  table,  chair, 
and  house,  are  unfelt,  and  are  nothing  to  me,  while 
I  am  in  thought  ;  so  that  when  I  am  in  spirit  they 
will  not  be  much  missed,  perhaps.  And  then 
there  are  states  of  mind  which  will  be  as  com- 
mon to  me  hereafter  as  here,  and  more  so  ;  so 
that  with  them,  at  once,  1  shall  be  familiar.  In 
prayer,  the  furniture  of  my  room  is  forgotten,  and 
praying  hereafter  in  our  Father's  house,  the  fresh 
splendor  of  it  will  be  forgotten.  And  I  shall  feel 
and  be  what  I  am  now  at  times,  but  more  purely, 
—  a  worshipper  only.  And  other  states  of  mind 
there  will  be,  in  which,  at  once,   I  shall  feel  as 


22  EUTHANASY. 

native  to  the  world  of  spirits  as  I  do  to  this  world 
of  earth. 

MARHAM. 

Still,  death  is  a  leaving  of  one  world  for  another. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  And  life  is  an  outliving  of  world  after 
world.  Where  is  now  what  the  world  was  to  you 
at  ten  years  old  ?  It  is  gone,  gone  for  ever.  And 
where  is  the  world  which  you  saw  and  felt,  and 
which  you  hoped  in,  at  twenty  ?  You  are  not  in  it 
now,  and  you  never  will  be  again,  — never  again. 

MARHAM. 

To  my  eyes  it  is  the  same  world. 

AUBIN. 

But  it  is  a  very  different  world  to  your  judg- 
ment and  to  your  imagination,  and  to  your  heart. 
While  sight  is  but  one  of  our  faculties,  and  in  this 
instance  the  least  sufficient  one.  For  though  the 
world  looks  to  be  in  the  same  place  which  it  was 
in  fifty  years  ago,  yet  it  is  widely  away  from  it, 
having  gone  along  with  the  sun  towards  the  con- 
stellation Hercules. 

MARHAM. 

O  the  depth  of  the  wisdom  of  God,  and  his 
ways  past  finding  out  ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  dear  uncle.  And  that  is  the  right  mood 
for  waiting  death  in.  I  mean,  a  trustful  con- 
sciousness of  the  mystery  of  the  universe. 


EUTHANASY.  23 

MARHAM. 

The  world  of  my  boyhood,  and  that  of  my 
youth,  and  this  of  my  old  age,  have  been  quite 
different  from  one  another,  and  would  have  felt 
quite  distinct,  only  that  it  was  by  little  and  little 
that  the  first  changed  into  the  second,  and  the 
second  into  the  third.  A  third  world  am  I  living 
in  ?  Then  the  fourth,  which  waits  me,  is  in  a 
quite  natural  course.  But  it  will  be  more  sudden 
than  the  others.  One  moment,  the  soul  is  in  this 
life,  and  the  next,  in  another. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  But  very  often  the  soul  outgrows 
this  world  before  the  other  world  opens  above  it. 
And  in  a  last  long  sickness,  many  a  Christian  soul 
grows  more  akin  to  the  great  family  in  heaven 
than  it  ever  was  to  fellow-creatures  in  this  earth. 
And  with  an  old  man,  shorter  and  shorter  are  his 
walks  round  home,  and  the  cunning  of  his  hand 
grows  less  and  less  ;  dimmer  and  dimmer  grow 
his  eyes,  and  more  and  more  dull  his  ears,  and 
less  and  less  of  this  earth  he  becomes,  till  at  last 
he  is  not  of  this  earth  at  all. 

MARHAM. 

1  was  young,  but  now  I  am  old.  This  change 
I  have  lived  through,  and  my  next  great  change 
will  be  death. 

AUBIN. 

From  manhood  of  thirty  to  old  age  of  eighty 


24  EUTHANASY. 

seems  a  great  change  ;  but  in  this  present  life, 
there  is  a  change  which  is  greater  and  more  sud- 
den, and  it  is  at  the  time  when  a  youth  first 
makes  out  what  it  is  to  be  a  man,  and,  instead  of 
a  dreamer,  he  has  suddenly  to  be  a  doer  and  a 
sufferer.  Often  let  a  youth  know  himself  to  be  a 
man,  and  then  he  will  not  shrink  much  from  the 
thought  of  being  an  old  man  and  a  dying  man. 
For  he  has  known  and  outlived  the  greatest  vicis- 
situde, when  of  a  youth  he  became  a  man.  Be 
cause  the  world  to  come  is  not  stranger  than  the 
reality  of  this  world  is  to  a  young  man,  sometimes  ; 
and  for  him  to  feel  the  strangeness  of  it,  and  part 
with  his  hopes  and  old  feelings,  is  not  less  pain- 
ful, nay,  is  worse,  than  parting  with  the  flesh. 
One  way  or  another,  we  most  of  us  have  changes 
come  over  us  that  frighten  us  more  than  death, 
and  at  the  first  feeling  of  which  we  have  every 
one  of  us  said,  perhaps,  "  Would  God  that  1 
might  die  !  "  These  seasons  it  is  well  for  us  to 
remember  and  live  over  again.  And  we  will  do 
t.  We  shall  have  tears  in  our  eyes  the  while, 
and  a  choking  in  our  throats,  perhaps.  But  our 
minds  will  be  the  better  for  such  recollections, 
and  our  hearts  will  open  the  more  earnestly  into 
prayer.  And  when  we  feel  how  God  was  in  our 
sorrows,  we  shall  trust  the  more  blessedly  that  he 
will  be  in  our  deaths. 


EUTHANASY.  25 

MARHAM. 

And  so  he  will  be,  and  blessedly  so,  we  will 
hope.  For  we  cannot  die  without  him,  any  more 
than  be  born.  And  now  that  we  must  die,  we 
will  think  of  the  times  when  we  would  have  died 
if  we  could.  And  I  will  think  of  them  to  make 
me  the  more  resigned  when  I  remember  that  I 
am  old  ;  for  old  age  is  only  a  slow  dying. 

AUBIN. 

Growing  old  is  like  bodily  existence  refining 
away  into  spiritual  life.  True,  the  ripeness  of 
the  soul  is  hidden  in  the  decay  of  the  body  ;  but 
so  is  many  a  ripe  fruit  in  its  husk. 

MARHAM. 

So  strangely  old  age  does  alter  us,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

A  man  vain  of  his  person  may  be  dismayed 
by  looking  thoughtfully  on  the  face  of  old  age  ; 
but,  rightly  looked  at,  there  is  to  be  read  in  every 
line  of  it  the  exhortation,  "Be  of  good  cheer." 
Only  let  us  love  God,  and  then  all  things  of  God's 
doing  look  lovely,  and  promise  us  good.  To  a 
good  old  man,  his  gray  hair  is  a  crown  ;  and  it  may 
be  worn,  and  it  ought  to  be,  like  what  has  been 
given  as  an  earnest  of  the  crown  of  immortality. 

MARHAM. 

Our  hearts  keep  beating  not  by  our  wills,  and 
our  looks  change  by  a  will  not  our  own,  but  one 
to  be  trusted  in  infinitelv. 


26  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

A  trustful  heart  never  breaks  ;  it  strengthens 
to  the  last.  And  to  the  last  we  will  trust.  God 
is  almighty  ;  then  all  things  are  his  mightiness, 
and  all  life  is  his  will.  With  us,  spring  and  sum- 
mer and  autumn  and  winter  shall  be  the  will  of 
God  ;  and  the  will  of  God  shall  be  the  wisdom  of 
the  starry  courses.  The  vital  nature  of  the  air 
about  us  shall  be  the  will  of  God  ;  and  it  shall  be 
the  will  of  God  that  we  breathe  without  thinking. 
And  to  us  joys  shall  be  the  will  of  God,  and  so 
shall  pains  and  sorrows  be.  Providence  is  in  all 
things,  so  that  whatever  we  do  not  understand 
shall  be  to  us  nothing  to  be  frightened  about,  but 
it  shall  be  mystery  and  the  will  of  God.  And  so, 
no  less  than  birth,  death  shall  be  to  us  the  will  of 
God  ;  and  in  it  we  will  rejoice  always,  though 
sometimes,  perhaps,  not  without  trembling. 

MARHAM. 

We  neither  live  nor  die  to  ourselves,  and  when 
we  die,  we  die  unto  the  Lord.  This  we  will  re- 
member, Oliver,  and  rejoice  in. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  In  joy  and  sorrow  I  will  remem- 
ber what  I  am  ;  that  I  am  more  than  flesh  and 
blood,  more  than  the  weight  of  one  hundred  and 
ten  pounds  of  earth  ;  that  1  am  a  creature  of  God, 
with  the  wisdom  of  God  in  my  shape,  and  the 
goodness  of  God  in  my  senses,  and   the  provi- 


EUTHANASY. 


27 


dence  of  God  in  my  life,  from  hour  to  hour. 
Yes,  and  more  than  a  creature  of  God  I  am.  I 
am  a  child  of  God.  Some  share  in  the  Divine 
nature  I  have,  and  a  larger  share  I  am  destined 
to.  A  litde  while,  and  then  I  shall  be  immor- 
tal. And  what  I  am  to  be  soon,  cannot  I  almost 
feel  as  though  I  were  ?  Yes,  I  can.  I  will 
think  more,  then,  of  what  I  am  to  be,  and  less  of 
what  T  am  to  be  saved  from. 

MARHAM. 

Yoy  mean 

AUBIN. 

Day  by  day  I  am  watched  over  by  the  loving 
eye  of  God.  What  unchangeableness  there  is  in 
that  Divine  eye  I  will  think  of,  and  not  so  much 
of  what  change  there  grows  in  my  own  looks. 
Night  by  night  I  will  lie  down  and  sleep  in  the 
thought  of  God,  and  in  the  thought,  too,  that  my 
waking  may  be  in  the  bosom  of  the  Father ;  and 
some  time  it  will  be  ;  so  I  trust. 


28 


EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  III. 


All  that  God  owns,  he  constantly  is  healing, 

Quietly,  gently,  softly,  but  most  surely  ;  — 

He  helps  the  lowliest  herb,  with  wounded  stalk, 

To  rise  again.    See  !  from  the  heavens  fly  down 

All  gentle  jiowers  to  cure  the  blinded  lamb ! 

Deep  in  the  treasure-house  of  wealthy  Nature, 

A  ready  instinct  wakes  and  moves 

To  clothe  the  naked  sparrow  in  the  neet, 

Or  trim  the  plumage  of  an  aged  raven ;  — 

Yea,  in  the  slow  decaying  of  a  rose, 

God  works  as  well  as  in  the  unfolding  bud ; 

He  works  with  gentleness  unspeakable 

In  death  itself;  a  thousand  times  more  carefiil 

Than  even  the  mother,  by  her  sick  child  watching. 

Leopold  Schbfbb. 


AUBIN. 

I  COULD  wish  to  die  on  a  day  like  this. 

MARRAM. 

Oliver,  you  surprise  me.     You  wish  to  die  ! 

AUBIN. 

No,  dear  uncle.  But  when  I  do  die,  I  hope  it 
will  be  on  a  day  like  this. 

MARHAM. 

Most  Others  would  think  their  feelings  would 
be  best  composed  for  death  in  autumn.  For 
then  all  things  are  dying  round  us,  or  are  in  har- 
mony with  death,  —  flowers  blackening  to  the 
ground,  leaves  falling  from  the  trees,  nights  length- 


EUTHANASY.  29 

ening,  and  days  less  bright ;  and  in  the  air  a  mist, 
feeling  like  the  presence  of  a  pall.  But  why 
would  you  rather  die  in  the  spring  ? 

AUBIN. 

On  the  first  day  of  spring  ?  Because,  at  this 
time,  the  instinct  of  immortality  feels  strongest  in 
me.  Only  a  fortnight  since,  there  was  snow  on 
the  ground  ;  and  it  was  still  a  time  of  great-coats, 
and  neckerchiefs,  and  cautiousness,  and  numb- 
ness, and  thick  breathing.  So  suddenly  out  of 
winter,  to-day  does  feel  like  newness  of  life. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  does.  There  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky  , 
and  how  warm  it  is,  and  how  soft  the  air  is  !  I 
feel  quite  young  again. 

AUBIN. 

You  must  feel  more  than  that,  uncle.  For  no 
young  man,  while  he  is  well,  ever  feels  as  though 
he  could  die.  But  you,  in  your  decay,  have  the 
feeling  of  youth  ;  therefore  it  is  that  of  the  youth 
of  your  immortality.  It  is  the  youth  of  the  soul 
that  one  feels,  on  such  a  day  as  this. 

MARHAM 

On  such  a  day  as  this,  then,  the  body 

AUBIN. 

With  me,  feels  like  a  garment  outgrown  by  the 
spirit. 

MARHAM. 

So,  then,  Oliver,  you  would  rather  die  in  the 
spring  ? 


30  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  in  hope,  and  in  the  season  of  hope.  Now 
let  us  go  into  the  garden,  uncle.  Shall  we  ?  — 
See  here,  how  fast  these  daffodils  have  grown. 
They  will  be  in  blossom  next  week,  and  the 
snowdrop  not  be  out  of  flower. 

MAKHAM. 

So  they  will  be,  and  they  will  soon  be  out 
again.  Oliver,  do  you  know  Herrick's  address  to 
the  daffodils  ? 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away,  ' 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  de^r, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

They  are  pretty  lines,  though  rather  pensive  ;  are 
they  not,  Oliver  ^ 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  But  I  do  not  like  flowers  being 
made  to  smell  of  the  grave.  Besides,  we  do  not 
die  like  daffodils  ;  or,  if  we  do,  it  is  in  a  way  that 
Herrick  did  not  mean.  I  shall  die  as  the  daffo- 
dils did  last  year.  But  see,  here  they  are,  the 
very  same  flowers,  alive  and  growing  again  !  And 
I,  —  I  shall  Hve  again,  and  everlastingly. 


EUTHANASY.  31 

MARHAM. 

Tulips,  lilies,  liger-lilies.  viole  3,  blue-bells, 
hyacinths, — all  are  coming  up.  And  here  are 
primroses  quite  yellow  with  blossoms.  Ay,  how 
all  the  flowers  are  pushing  themselves  through 
what  was  as  hard  as  ice  a  few  days  since  ! 

AUBIN. 

It  is  as  though  the  dead  earth  were  blossoming 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  but  these  stems,  and  leaves,  and  flowers 
have  sprung  out  of  roots. 

AUBIN. 

Well,  so  they  have.  But  then  those  roots 
were  formed  out  of  the  earth.  And  there  is  not 
a  fibre  of  any  one  of  them  but  was  mould  a  little 
while  since.  Look  at  the  honeysuckle  ;  it  is  in 
leaf ;  and  so  is  the  lilac,  almost  ;  and  the  goose- 
berry bushes  are  very  nearly.  The  flowers  draw 
nourishment  out  of  the  ground  for  themselves, 
and  encouragement  for  us  ;  and  in  sight  of  a 
thinker,  when  they  blossom,  it  is  not  only  into 
beautiful  colors,  but  into  suggestions  of  immortal 
hope.  O,  no,  no,  no  !  There  is  not  all  this 
abounding,  teeming  life  in  nature  for  us  to  see, 
and  think  of,  and  trust  in,  and  then  fail  of. 

MARHAM. 

O  these  birds  !  how  joyously  they  do  sing ! 
the  blackbird,  the  lark,  the  hedge-sparrow,  ay, 
and    the  bulfinch,  and   the    robin.      I  remember, 


32  EUTHANASY. 

when  I  was  a  boy,  a  robin  used  to  build  in  the 
garden  gate-post.  Three  or  four  years  he  did  ; 
and  I  suppose  he  died  then.  Birds,  our  English 
birds,  most  of  them,  and  I  suppose  most  birds, 
are  very  short-lived.  Well,  it  is  something  to 
think  of,  that  none  of  all  these  birds  were  what  I 
listened  to  when  I  was  a  boy. 

AUBIN. 

Nor  any  of  them  birds  that  God  fed  at  that 
time,  and  made  a  delight  of  in  the  world. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

I  mean,  that  you  ought  to  listen  to  the  songs 
of  these  birds  like  a  child  of  God,  and  not  like 
one  without  hope.  You  said  that  the  birds  now 
are  not  what  you  listened  to  in  your  youth.  And 
you  said  this  mournfully  ;  —  yes,  uncle,  you  did  ; 
—  and  so  you  well  might,  if  you  thought  yourself 
made  altogether  as  they  are  ;  which  you  are  not. 

MARHAM. 

No  ;  all  flesh  is  not  the  same  flesh,  St.  Paul 
says  ;  but  there  is  one  kind  of  flesh  of  men,  and 
another  of  birds. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  you  are  not  to  feel,  along  with  these 
birds,  in  such  a  way  as  though,  like  a  bird,  you 
were  yourself  only  a  little  clay  made  alive.     Birds 
do   not  live  long  ;  but  they   do    sing    with   rap 
ture 


EUTHANASY.  33 

MARHAM. 

So  they  do.  But  an  old  man  cannot  but  think 
how  they  will  all  be  dead  in  a  year  or  two,  and 
he  himself  as  well. 

AUBIN. 

One  star  differs  from  another  star  in  glory,  and 
one  world  from  another  world  in  character,  most 
likely.  And  so  it  is  not  unlikely  that  into  this 
world  of  mortality  angels  may  be  admitted  by 
God  as  visitors  ;  and  if  so,  no  doubt  it  is  to  them 
a  joy  to  see  how  in  decay,  and  through  it,  the 
world  renews  itself,  —  how  the  dead  leaves  of  au- 
tumn and  the  perishing  trees  of  the  forest  do  but 
deepen  the  mould,  and  make  it  productive  of  new 
and  sometimes  better  trees,  —  and  to  hear  how 
fresh  and  joyful  the  chorus  of  the  woods  always 
is.  In  the  hearing  of  God,  an  undying  song  kept 
up  by  dying  things.  And  we,  —  we  will  hear  it 
like  children  of  God,  with  our  souls  as  well  as 
with  our  mortal  ears.  Thoughts  of  mortality 
may  be  too  much  with  us.  And  the  birds  were 
never  meant  to  sing  them  to  us.  Rather  it  ought 
to  be  a  joy  to  us,  that  God  perfects  for  man  such 
delight,  and  for  himself  such  endless  thanksgiv- 
ing, out  of  the  throats  of  such  frail  things  as  birds. 

MARHAM. 

Thank  you,  Oliver,  fhank  you.     You  will  have 
your  wish,  as  to  your  dying-time,  I  am  almost 
sure.     For  you  have  years  to  live  yet,   I  hope. 
3 


34  EUTHANASY. 

And   a   few   Aprils  lived    like  the  last  half-hot* 
will  make  it  be  spring-time  in  your  soul  always. 

AUBIN. 

God  grant  it ! 

MARHAM. 

All  that  is  good  for  our  souls,  God  does  grant ; 
and  to  have  it,  we  have  only  to  ask  it. 

AUBIN. 

An  undevout  soul  is  like  a  tree  in  rich  earth, 
but  with  perished  roots.  Such  a  tree  may  have 
the  sun  to  warm  it,  and  the  dews  to  moisten  its 
bark,  and  the  breezes  to  blow  through  its  branch- 
es ;  and  so  it  may  maintain  a  show  of  life,  but 
only  a  show.  And  the  soul  of  a  man  may  re- 
ceive into  itself,  through  his  eyes,  all  the  objects 
of  the  world,  and  through  his  ears,  the  knowledge 
of  all  that  has  ever  happened,  and  his  mind  be- 
come, at  the  best,  not  much  better  than  a  diction- 
ary of  words,  and  a  growing  catalogue  of  things. 
Because,  for  knowledge  to  become  wisdom,  and 
for  the  soul  to  grow,  the  soul  must  be  rooted  in 
God  ;  and  it  is  through  prayer  that  there  comes 
to  us  that  which  is  the  strength  of  our  strength, 
and  the  virtue  of  our  virtue,  the  Holy  Spirit. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  we  will  pray  often  and  heartily  while 
we  can  ;  for  soon  we  shall  be  cut  down.  But 
we  shall  live  again  like  these  flowers.  Yes  !  I 
shall  blossom  again  into  beauty,  withered  as  1 
look. 


EUTHANASY.  35 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  within  your  shrunk  form  there  is 
what  will  spread  itself  into  an  angel,  winged,  and 
free  of  the  heavens.  And  there  is  in  you  a  swift- 
ness, that  may  some  time  make  of  worlds  mere 
resting-places  on  a  journey  into  infinity.  But 
there  is  in  you  more  than  this  ;  for  there  is  hid- 
den in  you  a  likeness  to  the  everlasting  youth  of 
the  Son  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

Can   these  bones  live  ?     Or  can   there  be   in 
them   what  will  quicken  into  an    immortal  } 
Lord  God,  thou  knowest ! 

AUBIN. 

See  this  vine.  It  is  merely  dry  slicks  and 
ragged  bark,  to  look  at.  Yet  inside  there  is  what 
will  be,  in  August,  gracefulness,  and  thick  leaves, 
and  a  hundred  bunches  of  grapes.  Do  I  know 
this  of  the  vine,  and  cannot  I  be  sure  that  T  know 
something  Hke  it  of  myself  ? 

MARHAM. 

God  makes  these  flowers  what  they  are,  and 
he  will  not  forget  us,  nor  fail  us  ;  and  we  ought 
to  feel  this  the  more,  the  more  we  consider  the 
flowers. 

AUBIN. 

From  all  God's  works,  the  spirit  of  God  is  to 
be  caught,  if  they  are  but  looked  at  religiously. 
And  by  our  dwelling  devoutly  in  the  world,  our 


36  EUTHANASY. 

souls  will  have  in  them  the  full  meaning  of  the 
world.  And  then,  die  when  we  may,  in  foggy 
November,  or  in  January  and  the  middle  of  win- 
ter, there  will  be  spring  within  our  souls  ;  feelings 
of  hope,  caught  from  budding  trees,  and  from  the 
smell  of  the  first  violet,  and  the  opening  of  the 
first  rose,  and  from  the  March  song  of  the  lark, 
and  the  April  return  of  the  swallow  from  beyond 
the  sea.  And  this  hopefulness  of  nature  we  can- 
not give  into  too  believingly.  And  in  all  things 
that  we  hope  humbly,  we  shall  be  more  than  jus- 
tified by  that  *' great  hope  which  maketh  not 
ashamed." 


ETTTHANASY.  37 


CHAPTER  IV. 


There  is  no  danger  to  a  man  that  knows 

What  Life  and  Death  is ;  there  's  not  any  law 

Exceeds  his  knowledge ;  neither  is  it  lawful 

That  he  should  sloop  to  any  other  law. 

He  goes  before  them,  and  commands  them  all, 

That  to  himself  is  a  law  rational.  —  George  Chapman. 


MARHAM. 

Sometimes  I  shrink  from  expecting  death  ; 
but  for  long  I  do  not.  But,  Oliver,  as  I  grow 
older,  I  am  afraid  I  may  get  to  dread  death. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  you  must  not  be  afraid  at  all  ;  neither 
of  death,  nor  of  the  fear  of  death.  For  if  you  are 
afraid  of  fearing  death,  you  will  fear  it. 

MARHAM. 

And  after  all,  perhaps,  death  was  not  meant  to 
be  altogether  pleasant  to  us. 

AUBIN. 

No  ;  a  skeleton  is  a  skeleton.  And  a  death's 
head  is  a  death's  head,  ugly  in  itself,  and  without 
eyes  ;  but  then  through  the  eye-sockets  there 
shines  the  light  of  God  ;  and  that  light  the  chil- 
dren of  God  know,  and  it  gladdens  them. 

MARHAM. 

You  mean,  that,  the  more  godlike  we  become, 


38  '  EXJTHANASY. 

the  more  godlike  death  will  feel  ;  and  that  is  true. 
But,  Oliver,  one  day  I  am  quite  resigned  to  death, 
and  perhaps  the  next  day  I  am  not  so  submissive. 
This  ought  not  to  be. 

AUBIN. 

And  why  not  ?  Is  there  any  thing  toward 
which  you  always  feel  the  same  ?  Do  pictures 
always  please  you  the  same  ?  Does  not  music 
please  you  less  some  days  than  others  ?  There 
was  an  acquaintance  whom  you  would  have  been 
very  glad  to  have  seen  yesterday,  but  not  to-day. 
Are  there  any  of  your  friends  who  are  always  the 
same  to  you  ?  Then  why  do  you  think  death 
ought  to  be  ?  Man  is  a  creature  of  many  moods, 
and  the  thought  of  death  does  not,  and  cannot, 
agree  with  them  all  alike. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  I  hope  my  last  day  will  not  happen  to  be 
one  of  my  fearful  ones. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  it  will  not.  In  a  Jewish  house,  at  a 
marriage  feast,  wedding  garments  were  given  the 
guests  at  the  beginning.  And  when  the  Spirit  and 
the  Bride  say,  "Come,"  death  brings  us  mortals 
a  garment  of  willingness  to  put  on.  For  I  have 
known  several  good  men  who  were  afraid  of  being 
afraid  at  the  last  ;  but  none  of  them  were.  Of 
the  fear  of  death  we  must  not  make  a  trouble,  nor 
must  we  try  to  reason  ourselves  out  of  it  ;  for  it 


EUTHANASY.  39 

will  grow  stronger  so.  There  is  no  arguing  with 
the  fear  of  death  ;  for  it  is  a  ghost  in  a  dark 
room,  and  vanishes  only  with  a  candle. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  eighteenth  Psalm,  David  speaks  of  his 
having  been  compassed  about  by  the  sorrows  of 
death  and  the  grave.  And  then  he  blesses  God 
for  deliverance,  and  says,  "  Thou  wilt  light  my 
candle  ;  the  Lord  my  God  will  enlighten  my 
darkness."  In  our  fears  we  must  pray,  and  so 
bring  the  light  and  the  power  of  God  over  our 
souls. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Prayer  in  the  darkness  of  the  night  is  the  light 
of  the  heart.  This  was  said  by  one  whose  mean- 
ing ought  to  be  surpassed  in  experience  by  the 
weakest  of  us  Christians. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  a  beautiful  saying.  Who  said  it  ?  Some 
Jew  ? 

MARHAM. 

A  Mahometan.  And  I  think  he  was  a  friend 
of  Mahomet's. 

AUBIN. 

And  a  man  that  did  not  fear  death,  then  ; 
Jhough  hardly  a  man,  to  be  franticly  persuaded, 
v\  ith  Mahomet,  that  paradise  is  under  the  shadow 


40  EUTHANASY. 

of  swords.  For  an  awe  of  death  we  were  meant 
to  have  ;  and  fears  of  it  have  their  use.  Down 
the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  do  dreadful 
mists  arise  ;  then  let  the  thought  of  God  shine  out 
from  my  soul,  and  it  will  glorify  the  mists,  and 
make  them  golden  with  the  light  of  heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Most  of  the  reasons  that  frighten  men  at  death 
ought  to  make  them  afraid  to  live.  And  besides, 
really,  life  is  only  a  lengthened  dying. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  our  life  is  a  dying  daily,  as  Paul  says  ; 
and  at  the  longest,  it  is  not  such  a  very  long  death. 
For  a  man  may  be  ever  so  young  and  strong,  yet 
it  is  likely  the  wood  is  growing  in  which  he  will 
be  coffined  ;  and  there  is  a  divine  dial-plate,  on 
which  the  hour  of  his  death  is  pointed  to  ;  and 
what  is  to  be  his  grave  will  be  his  grave  ;  and  his 
body  is  waited  for. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  we  were  as  much  born  to  die  as  to  live. 
And  if  life  is  worth  living,  we  ought  to  think  that 
death  is  worth  dying.  But  then  we  were  not 
born  sinners  ;  but  sinners  we  shall  die.  Yes,  but 
there  is  Christ  Jesus  ;  and  if  we  are  in  him,  there 
is  no  condemnation  for  us.  Martin  Luther  says, 
the  fear  of  death  is  merely  death  itself,  and  that 
whoever  utterly  abolishes  death  out  of  the  heart 
neither  tastes  nor  feels  any  death. 


EUTHANASY.  41 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  but  sometimes  fear  of  death  is  a 

disease  of  tlie  nerves,  and  no  fault  of  the  heart  ; 

and  sometimes  it  is  a  restless  fancy.     Sir  Walter 

Raleigh,    the  night    before  his  execution,    could 

snufF  the  candle  and  make  this  couplet :  — 

Cowards  fear  to  die ;  but  courage  stout, 
Rather  than  live  in  snufF,  will  be  put  out. 

But  Doctor  Johnson  dreaded  death  all  his  life 
He  believed  in  another  world  almost  desperately. 
Doubt  it  he  did  not,  and  could  not.  Yet  he 
would  hke  to  have  seen  a  spirit.  An  apparition 
would  have  been  a  happiness  to  him,  for  it  would 
have  made  him  sure  of  an  hereafter.  I  suppose 
he  feared  dying,  because  he  would  have  to  leave 
his  body  behind  him,  —  the  eyes  he  had  been  used 
to  see  through,  and  the  ears  he  had  been  used  to 
hear  through.  To  many  men,  the  next  world  is 
blank,  because  they  do  not  know  how  they  are  to 
feel  in  it.  Yet  how  they  now  hear,  and  see,  and 
feel,  they  cannot  at  all  tell.  I  touch  this  table 
with  my  hand,  and  now  in  my  mind  there  is 
knowledge  whether  the  table  is  hard  or  soft  ;  but, 
up  my  fingers  and  arm,  how  did  the  sensation  of 
touching  the  table  pass  into  my  brain  ^  I  do  not 
know.  Now,  as  I  speak,  the  air  between  us  vi- 
brates ;  there  are  airy  vibrations  ;  this  we  know  : 
but  there  is  no  knowing  how  the  words  of  my 
mouth  become  instant  ideas  in  your  mind. 


0 
42  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  the  will  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is  ;  and  that  is  what  we  have  to  say  oi 
every  function  of  our  bodies  and  power  of  our 
minds,  and  of  the  whole  world.  How  our  souls 
will  live  hereafter  is  not  a  greater  mystery,  than 
how  our  bodies  do  live  now.  This  world  is  not 
like  a  parlour,  in  which  we  know  all  the  furniture, 
and  every  corner  ;  if  it  were,  we  might  well  shrink 
from  death,  and  think  it  a  door  opening  out  of 
the  familiarly  known  into  the  fearfully  unknown. 
Birth,  growth,  health,  and  sickness,  labor  weary- 
ing the  body,  and  sleep  refreshing  it,  food  sup- 
porting, and  poisons  hurting  it,  —  of  life  in  every 
way,  we  must  say  that  we  cannot  tell  how  it  is. 
And  yet  there  are  persons  that  shrink  from  the 
future  life,  and  some  that  do  not  believe  it,  be- 
cause they  do  not  feel  in  what  way  it  will  be  ; 
while  what  the  way  is  of  the  very  life  they  are  in 
they  cannot  tell.  For  they  cannot  tell  how  sight 
gets  into  the  brain  through  the  humors  of  the  eye, 
nor  how  movements  of  the  air  get  through  the 
ear  to  be  thoughts  in  the  soul.  They  do  not  like 
thinking  of  death,  because  it  opens  into  mystery  ; 
while  they  themselves  Hve  in  mystery,  and  move 
in  it,  and  have  all  their  being  in  it.  A  man  fears 
for  his  soul  in  a  new  world,  while  he  cannot  find 
a  bird,  or  animal,  or  insect,  not  one,  which  its  life 


EUTHANASY.  43 

does  not  exactly  suit.  Out  of  the  body  his  soul 
will  go  into  the  man  knows  not  what  state,  and 
so  his  mind  misgives  him  ;  while  there  is  not  a 
swallow  comes  out  of  its  egg-shell  into  this  great 
world  unsuited  to  its  manner  of  life  ;  and  because 
the  swallow  wants  it,  there  is  an  instinct  of  flight 
in  it  at  a  month  old,  which  is  wiser  than  geogra 
phy  and  astronomy  and  meteorology. 

MARHAM. 

And  yet  we  are  afraid  of  what  will  go  with  our 
souls  ;  as  though  they  could  go  anywhere  else 
than  to  God  ! 

AUBIN. 

There  is  an  awe  of  death  which  is  right,  but  it 
is  not  common  ;  and  it  is  what  life  would  be  the 
sublimer  for.  What  are  the  common  fears  of 
death  ?  They  are  what  we  caught  from  the  tones 
in  which  our  nurses  used  to  frighten  us  with  the 
grave  ;  they  are  terrors  which  survive  among  us 
from  cowardly  ages.  Weaker  and  weaker  I  shall 
grow,  and  perhaps  my  mind  may  get  infected 
with  the  failing  of  my  body.  And  there  may 
come  upon  me  the  forms  of  old  terrors,  and  my 
reason  may  not  be  strong  enough  to  command 
them  back,  but  my  faith  will  sustain  me,  I  hope. 
Fear,  fear,  why  should  I  fear  ?  For  is  not  this 
a  world  which  Christ  died  in  ? 

MARHAM. 

Yes.  And  this  is  what  makes  me  dread  being 
afraid  of  death. 


44  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Is  it  anywhere  written  in  the  New  Testament 
that  you  shall  not  fear  death  ?  It  is  a  privilege 
not  to  fear  it  ;  but  a  duty  it  is  not.  Well,  dear 
uncle,  if  your  terrors  cannot  be  borne  with  in 
faith,  and  if  they  do  come  upon  you,  then  they 
may  be  laughed  away,  perhaps  ;  for  dying  men 
do  laugh,  sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

Laughed  away,  Oliver  ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  as  being  the  perverse  ingenuities 
of  a  soul  frightening  itself.  But  you  will  say, 
they  will  not  seem  perverse.  Well,  then,  one 
way  or  another,  in  merriment  or  soberness,  all 
things  are  to  be  denied  which  cannot  be  believed 
in  the  love  of  God.  For  it  is  no  fancy,  and  it  is 
the  experience  of  our  life,  and  it  is  Scripture, 
and  it  is  the  Gospel,  that  God  is  love. 

MARHAM. 

God  is  love.     God  is  love  itself. 

AUBIN. 

And  this  truth  we  will  die  in.  Let  what  things 
will  come  into  our  thoughts.  Wonderful  is  man's 
power  of  self-torture.  And  in  some  moods  of  our 
minds,  we  could  fancy  some  most  blessed  truths 
ending  in  a  frightful  application  to  ourselves.  Just 
as,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  in  a  church  built  for  the 
peace  of  the  soul,  a  worshipper  might  get  his  eye 


EUTHANASY.  45 

fixed  by  some  diabolical  face  carved  on  a  corbel. 
Do  not  I  live  in  God  ?  And  shall  I  be  afraid  of 
dying  in  God  ?  Is  it  I  that  keep  my  heart  go- 
ing ?  And  ought  I  then  to  dread  its  stopping  ? 
Rather  what  I  ought  to  fear  is  the  will  which  it 
does  beat  with,  —  the  Divine  will.  And  if  I  am 
wisely  afraid  of  that,  I  have  nothing  else  to  fear. 
God  is  the  hfe  of  my  life,  I  know  and  feel.  And 
so  I  will  not  fear  dying.  I  am  in  God,  and  I 
shall  be  in  him  everlastingly.  Die  in  him  I  can- 
not, except  as  a  grain  of  seed  dies  in  the  ground, 
to  spring  up  again  into  a  cluster  of  wheat-ears 
waving  to  the  wind  on  lofty  stalks. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  when  we  die,  I  hope  it  will  be  in 
full  faith  of  a  new  and  a  hundred-fold  greater  life. 
The  hour  is  getting  late.  I  am  afraid,  Oliver,  I 
have  made  you  talk  more  than  you  ought  to  have 
done. 

AUBIN. 

O,  no,  uncle,  no  ! 

MARHAM. 

Look  at  your  watch,  Oliver.    It  is  getting  late. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is,  uncle.  And  I  ought  to  be  readier  for 
burial  than  I  am. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  what  do  you  mean  ? 


46  EUTHANASY. 

AITBIN. 

That  it  is  time.  I  had  my  clothes  off,  and  was 
getting  into  bed. 

MARHAM. 

I  have  known  one  or  two  instances  of  per- 
sons being  found  dead  in  their  beds.  The  night 
before,  they  did  not  think  when  they  went  up 
stairs 

AUBIN. 

How  much  farther  they  were  going. 

MARHAM. 

No. 

AUBIN. 

And  so,  sometimes,  while  I  am  undressing  my- 
self, I  think  that  perhaps  in  an  hour  or  two  my 
soul  may  be  unapparelled  of  my  body.  And 
then,  through  Christ  within  me,  the  hope  of  glory, 
my  bedroom  feels  like  the  cave  of  the  Arima- 
thean,  and  full  of  a  power  that  will  not  suffer  my 
soul  to  see  corruption.  And  then,  as  I  lie  down, 
I  say  a  few  lines  out  of  what  the  knightly  physi- 
cian of  Norwich  used  to  call  his  dormitive  to  bed- 
ward. 

Sleep  is  a  death ;  —  O,  make  me  try, 
By  sleeping,  what  it  is  to  die ! 
And  as  gently  lay  my  head 
On  my  grave,  as  now  my  bed. 
Howe'er  I  rest,  great  God,  let  me 
Awake  again  at  last  with  thee ! 


EUTHANASY.  47 


CHAPTER  V. 


This  life  of  mine 
Muat  be  lived  out,  and  a  grave  thoroughly  earned. 

R.  Browning. 

The  quantity  of  sorrow  he  has,  does  it  not  mean  withal  the  quantity  of 
sympathy  he  has,  the  quantity  of  faculty  and  victory  he  shall  yet  have  ? 
"Our  sorrow  is  the  inverted  image  of  our  nobleness."  The  depth  of  our 
despair  measures  what  capability  and  height  of  claim  we  have  to  hope. 
Black  smoke,  as  of  Tophet,  filling  all  our  universe,  it  can  yet  by  true  heart- 
energy  become  flame  and  brilliancy  of  heaven.    Courage  ! 

T.  Carlylb. 


MARHAM. 

I  AM  not  afraid  of  death,  Oliver,  but  some  time 
perhaps  I  may  be  ;  for  better  men  than  I  have 
grown  so  in  old  age.  Dr.  Isaac  Milner,  —  did 
you  never  read  his  life,  Oliver  ?  He  was  Dean 
of  Carlisle.  In  one  of  his  letters,  written  in 
tears,  and  with  his  door  bolted,  he  said  it  seemed 
as  though  Almighty  God  had  hidden  his  face  from 
him  ;  that  his  prayers  were  unanswered  ;  that  his 
heart  failed  him  ;  and  that  it  was  no  easy  matter 
for  him  to  look  death  and  judgment  in  the  face. 
Oliver,  I  do  not  dread  death,  but  I  may  yet. 
For  I  think  it  is  no  clear  view  which  I  haye  of 
the  next  world  ;  and  I  fear  it  is  from  this  world V 
being  too  pleasant  to  my  eyes. 


48  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

This  world  is  more  to  you  than  the  world  to 
come  is.     Well,  uncle,  so  I  think  it  ought  to  be. 

MARHAM. 

But  my  thoughts  of  an  hereafter  are  so  vague. 

AUBIN. 

How  should  they  be  otherwise  }  This  ought 
m^t  to  distress  you.  It  is  not  Httleness  of  faith. 
You  have  no  clear  notions  of  a  future  world  ;  but 
you  are  doubtful,  not  about  its  certainty,  but  only 
about  the  place  of  it,  and  the  look  and  the  man- 
ner of  it.  Now,  in  these  respects,  nothing  has 
been  shown  us  of  the  world  to  come.  Our  next 
will  be  a  spiritual  state  ;  and  so,  much  more  than 
the  certainty  of  it  could  not  be  told  us  ;  for  the 
things  of  a  purely  spiritual  life  could  not  be  made 
to  be  understood  by  us,  whose  language  and  ways 
of  thinking  have  come  so  largely  from  our  bodily 
experience.  This  world  we  breathe,  and  feel, 
and  see  ;  but  the  world  to  come  we  can  only 
have  faith  in. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  I  am  afraid,  Oliver,  that  my  faith  in  an 
hereafter  is  weaker  than  it  ought  to  be. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  not,  uncle.  From  my  knowledge  of  you, 
I  know  it  is  not.  Men  are  capable  of  faith  in 
another  life  ;  some  more,  some  less,  than  others. 
And  I  might  have  all  faith  in  it,  and  not  be  the 


EUTHANASY.  49 

better  for  it,  but  be  nothing  stll.  Our  degree  of 
faith  is  not  a  thing  for  us  to  be  torturing  ourselves 
about.  But,  uncle,  you  do  believe  in  a  future  life, 
only  not  as  strongly,  perhaps,  as  you  are  conscious 
of  being  alive.  Why,  how  should  you  }  This 
green,  familiar  earth  ! — it  is  home  to  live  in  it. 
And  to  this  domestic  feeling  the  other  world  may 
well  be  foreign,  sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

You  think  so,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

If  your  faith  in  the  world  to  come  were  the 
strongest  possible,  it  could  not  possibly  be  of  the 
same  nature  as  your  faith  in  the  existence  of  India, 
or  in  your  being  able  to  get  to 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied. 

We  can  say  a  hundred  and  a  hundred  thousand 
things  about  the  life  we  are  living  ;  but  about  the 
life  we  trust  to  live,  we  can  say  only  one  thing. 
And  so  it  feels  as  though  we  were  saying  almost 
nothing,  though  the  one  thing  we  can  say  is  the 
greatest  that  can  be  said  ;  for  we  can  say  that  a 
world  of  spirit  there  is,  there  certainly  is.  And 
so,  as  I  was  saying,  uncle,  your  belief  in  an  here- 
after is  greater  than  you  think  it.  And  if  it  feels 
vague,  it  is  because  the  world  to  come  is  vague  as 
yet  to  us  all. 

4 


0 

50  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

What  you  say  is  a  relief  to  me,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  impossible  that  you  could  think  of  the  fu- 
ture life  in  the  same  way  as  you  think  of  to-mor- 
row. In  regard  to  the  manner  of  the  life  to 
come,  you  can  only  say  that  it  will  be  a  spiritual 
world,  a  world  of  spirits.  But  of  the  way  of  the 
present  life,  a  thousand  things  might  be  said.  It 
is  sleeping  and  waking  ;  it  is  "  Good  night"  on 
going  to  bed,  and  "  Good  morning  "  on  getting 
up  ;  it  is  to  wonder  what  the  day  will  bring  forth  ; 
it  IS  sunshine  and  gloominess  ;  it  is  rain  on  the 
window,  as  one  sits  by  the  fire  ;  it  is  to  walk  in 
the  garden,  and  see  the  flowers  open,  and  hear  the 
birds  sing  ;  it  is  to  have  the  postman  bring  letters  ; 
it  is  to  have  news  from  east,  west,  north,  and 
south  ;  it  is  to  read  old  books  and  new  books  ;  it 
is  to  see  pictures  and  hear  music  ;  it  is  to  have 
Sundays  ;  it  is  to  pray  with  a  family  morning  and 
evening  ;  it  is  to  sit  in  the  twilight  and  meditate  ; 
it  is  to  be  well,  and  sometimes  to  be  ill  ;  it  is  to 
have  business  to  do,  and  to  do  it  ;  it  is  to  have 
breakfast  and  dinner  and  tea  ;  it  is  to  belong  to  a 
town,  and  to  have  neighbours,  and  to  be  one  in  a 
circle  of  acquaintance  ;  it  is  to  have  friends  to 
love  one  ;  it  is  to  have  sight  of  dear  old  faces  ; 
and,  with  some  men,  it  is  to  be  kissed  daily  by 
the  same  loving  lips  for  fifty  years  ;  and  it  is  to 


EUTHANASY.  51 

know  themselves  thought  of  many  times  a  day,  in 
many  places,  by  children,  and  grandchildren,  and 
many  friends. 

MARHAM. 

You  remind  me,  Oliver,  of  a  passage  in  one  of 
Hazlitt's  works.  I  wish  I  could  remember  where  ; 
but  I  cannot.  But  I  have  interrupted  you,  which 
I  ought  not  to  have  done. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  you  did  not.  All  that  I  was  going 
to  say  was,  that,  this  life  being  so  many  happy 
things  to  some  men,  it  is  no  wonder,  and  no  fault, 
if  they  do  not  long  for  a  change.  They  know 
what  this  world  is  ;  it  is  all  this  happiness  :  the 
other  world  they  do  not  know  ;  they  know  that  it 
is  happiness,  all  happiness,  but  they  do  not  know 
what. 

MARHAM. 

But,  Oliver,  we  are  to  long  for  the  future  life, 
for  the  sake  of  being  with  God. 

AUBIN. 

And  have  not  we  God  with  us  now,  uncle  ? 
All  I  mean  is  this,  that  we  ought  not  to  distress 
ourselves  about  our  piety,  if  this  earth  is  so 
pleasant  that  we  are  not  eager  to  be  out  of  it. 
For  did  not  God  make  the  earth,  as  well  as  the 
heavens  } 

MARHAM. 

I  think,  Oliver,  I  cannot  understand  you. 


52  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I  mean  to  say,  that  I  do  not  think  God  wishes 
to  have  us  live  in  a  transport  about  heaven.  Many 
persons  think  it  is  a  duty  to  be  ecstatic  about 
what  their  reward  in  heaven  will  be  ;  but  this  vio- 
lent feeling  they  cannot  keep  up  ;  and  if  they  could, 
then  they  would  be  the  worse  for  it,  for  it  would 
disgust  them  with  their  duties  and  work. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  so  unlike  your  usual  way  of  talking  ! 

AUBIN. 

No,  dear  uncle,  it  is  not.  What  I  have  just 
said  is  in  regard  to  heaven  as  a  reward,  and  that 
is  the  only  feeling  about  it  which  most  persons 
have.  There  is  another  expectation  of  an  here- 
after, that  is  like  a  Jacob's  ladder,  reaching  from 
our  souls  to  heaven,  and  up  and  down  which,  for 
our  help,  ascend  and  descend  thoughts,  like  angels. 
Selfishness,  eager  for  a  heaven  of  enjoyment,  is 
quite  a  different  thing  in  the  soul  from  love,  and 
purity,  and  truth,  yearning  together  for  what  is 
their  native  element. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  with  you  to  love,  and  all  these  comforts 
about  me,  these  many  helps  for  improvement, 
these  books  to  read,  and  all  my  time  for  myself, 
and  with  the  green  fields  to  walk  in,  and  with  you 


EUTHANASY.  53 

to  think  of  me,  and  to  talk  to,  and  to  be  with, 
very,  very  pleasant  is  my  life  that  now  is.  And 
pleasant,  too,  is  my  expectation  of  the  life  which 
is  to  come.  My  thought  of  heaven  is  this  earth 
at  its  best,  blossoming  into  infinity. 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  now  I  understand  you,  not  at  all.  But 
now,  about  what  I  interrupted  you  in,  just  now. 

AUBIN. 

About  the  world  to  come,  it  ought  not  to  be  as 
though  we  did  not  know  surely,  because  we  do 
not  know  much.  From  the  nearest  star,  our 
earth,  if  it  is  seen,  looks  hardly  any  thing  at  all. 
It  shines,  or  rather  it  twinkles,  and  that  is  all. 
To  them  afar  off,  this  earth  is  only  a  shining 
point.  But  to  us  who  hve  in  it,  it  is  wide  and 
various  ;  it  is  sea  and  land  ;  it  is  Europe,  Asia, 
Africa,  and  America  ;  it  is  the  lair  of  the  lion, 
and  the  pasture  of  the  ox,  and  the  pathway  of  the 
worm,  and  the  support  of  the  robin  ;  it  is  what 
has  day  and  night  in  it ;  it  is  what  customs  and 
languages  obtain  in  ;  it  is  many  countries  ;  it  is 
the  habitation  of  a  thousand  million  men  ;  and  it 
is  our  home.  All  this  the  world  is  to  us,  though, 
looked  at  from  one  of  the  stars,  it  is  only  a  some- 
thing that  twinkles  in  the  distance. 

MARHAM. 

Twinkles  ;  that  is,  it  is  seen  one  instant,  and 
lost  another. 


54  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

And  seen  only  as  a  few  intermittent  rays  of 
light  ;  though,  to  us  who  live  in  it,  it  is  hill  and 
valley,  and  land  and  water,  and  many  thousands 
of  miles  wide.  So  that  if  the  future  world  is  a 
star  of  guidance  for  us,  it  is  enough  ;  because  it 
is  not  for  us  to  know,  but  to  believe,  that  it  will 
prove  our  dear  home. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  very  well  said,  Oliver.  A  little  while 
ago,  you  said  you  thought  that  all  men  could  not, 
perhaps,  hope  alike  for  the  next  life. 

AUBIN. 

Not  with  the  same  warmth.  And  then  there  is 
this.  To  a  man  lying  hopelessly  ill,  heaven  is  a 
comfort  ;  to  a  martyr  just  about  to  suffer,  it  was 
courage  ;  and  to  a  man  laboring  on  in  poverty 
and  neglect,  it  is  holy  strength.  But  a  man  who 
is  not  poor,  nor  ill,  nor  about  to  be  stoned  to 
death,  must  not  distress  himself,  if  he  does  not 
feel  all  through  his  life  what  faith  Stephen  had 
only  in  his  last  moments.  Faith  comes  of  virtue. 
What  are  the  virtues,  then,  through  which  an  in- 
crease of  faith  can  come  to  us  ?  Kindness  to  all 
men,  sympathy  with  goodness  in  God  and  man, 
and  what  is  more  peculiar  for  our  way  of  living, 
thankfulness  for  the  ease  and  the  many  delights 
we  have.  In  this  comfortable  house,  uncle,  ours 
ought  to  be  very  largely  what  is  so  very  rare  in 
men,  the  faith  which  comes  of  gratitude. 


EUTHANASY.  55 

MARHAM. 

This  faith  we  will  seek  through  prayers  and 
hymns.  And  as  gratitude  to  God  can  be  shown 
only  through  goodness  to  his  creatures,  Oliver, 
you  shall  think  of  some  person  for  us  to  assist,  — 
some  one,  1  mean,  whom  we  should  not  perhaps 
have  helped,  but  for  this  conversation. 

AUBIN. 

And  through  sympathy  with  him,  our  souls 
shall  be  the  better.  And  we  will  remember,  be- 
sides, that  for  us  faith  can  and  ought  to  grow  out 
of  the  love  of  friends,  and  nature,  and  art.  For, 
in  any  right  direction,  our  love  can  grow  so  strong 
and  pure  as  to  feel  immortal. 

MARHAM. 

You  mean 

AUBIN. 

That  with  a  father  of  a  family,  if  his  is  a  whole- 
some hope  in  Providence,  it  has  grown  greatly 
out  of  what  he  has  felt  while  embracing  his  chil- 
dren, and  playing  with  them,  and  while  thinking 
for  them  in  the  night,  and  hoping  for  good,  and 
useful,  and  happy  lives  for  them.  And,  of  ne- 
cessity, a  child's  feeling  towards  God  is  the  in- 
finity of  what  it  feels  for  its  parents.  My  faith  is 
to  be  out  of  my  own  Christian  heart,  and  not  to 
be  precisely  what  Stephen  showed,  or  Paul  felt, 
or  Poly  carp  had.  But  let  any  one  be  of  the 
Christian  spirit,  and   he   will  feel   himself  of  the 


56  EUTHANASY. 

Christian  heaven.  Love,  integrity,  disinterested- 
ness,—  these,  blending  together,  make  a  con- 
sciousness that  crowns  me  with  immortality  ;  I 
do  not  say  very  brightly  so,  but  certainly. 

MARHAM. 

Is  not  that,  Oliver,  —  is  not  that  pride,  or 
what  may  end  in  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle  ;  indeed  it  is  not.  For  in  this  way, 
when  I  feel  myself  immortal  without  thinking  of 
it,  I  clasp  my  hands,  and  sometimes  I  kneel  and 
lay  my  forehead  to  the  ground,  worshipping  God, 
because  I  am  made  to  feel  justly  and  holily  and 
lovingly.  And  because  I  love  along  with  God, 
along  with  God  1  am  sure  I  shall  live.  And  so 
every  man  I  love  makes  me  feel  myself  immortal. 
And  something  of  the  same  experience  is  worked 
in  me  by  reading  a  good  book,  or  hearing  of  a 
right  action,  and  by  the  sight  of  any  thing  beauti- 
ful  or  sublime  in  nature. 


EUTHANASY.  57 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Blessed  are  ihey  who  see,  and  yet  believe  not ! 

Yea,  blest  are  they  who  look  on  graves,  and  still 

Believe  none  dead  ;  who  see  proud  tyrants  ruling, 

And  yet  believe  not  in  the  strength  of  Evil ;  — 

Blessed  are  they  who  see  the  wandering  poor, 

And  yet  believe  not  that  their  God  forsakes  them  ; 

Who  see  the  blind  worm  creepirg,  yet  believe  not 

That  even  that  is  left  without  a  path.  — Leopold  Scuefkh. 

MARHAM. 

You  are  not  well  this  evening,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  I  am  not. 

MARHAM. 

Not  very  unwell,  I  hope  ;  though  you  do  look 
so,  Oliver.  What  have  you  seen,  or  heard,  or 
been  thinking?  Dear  Oliver,  something  has  dis- 
tressed you,  I  think. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle.  Only  I  have  been  thinking  over 
my  hfe  before  I  knew  you. 

MARHAM. 

Too  painful  for  you,  in  your  weak  state,  to 
think  of.  But  it  was  for  the  best  for  you,  we  are 
sure.  But  T, — T  ought  not  to  be  saying  it,  1 
know.  That  I  ever  lost  sight  of  you  is  what  ^ 
can  never  forgive  myself. 


68  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Now,  uncle,  I  am  distressed,  or  I  shall  be 
very  soon. 

MAEHAM. 

Good  Oliver,  O,  if  only  I  could But  I 

cannot. 

AUBIN. 

Nay,  dear  uncle,  now  no  more. 

MARHAM. 

Of  all  your  many  sufferings,  I  cannot  retrieve 
one.  What  your  lot  in  life  has  been,  it  has  been. 
And  what  it  is  to  be  will  not  be  as  happy  as  I 
could  wish,  and  as  I  would  make  it,  only  that 

your  health But,  indeed,  had  I  found  you 

earlier,  things  might  have  been  different. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  uncle,  you  have  been  very  good  to  me, 
and  you  are.  And  believe  me,  uncle,  that  I  am 
very  happy.     For  this  is  only  nervous  weakness. 

MARHAM. 

But,  O,  Oliver,  only  to  think 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  1  quite  agree  with  something  of  Jean 
Paul's  which  I  have  seen,  somewhere. 

MARHAM. 

And  what  is  it  ^ 

AUBIN. 

That  if  God  were  to  show  himself  to  us  in  the 
distribution   of  the   suns,  and  in  what  makes  our 


EUTHANASY.  59 

tears  fall,  and  in  the  abysses,  of  which  he  is  the 
fulness,  and  himself  the  bounds,  we  should  not  be 
willing  to  say  to  him,  ''  Be  other  than  thou  art." 

MARHAM. 

It  is  rightly  and  beautifully  said,  —  very  beauti- 
fully. But,  Oliver,  my  dear  Oliver,  I  am  very 
sorry  for  you.  But  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  me 
that  I  have  never  heard  you  murmur  ! 

AUBIN. 

I  hope  not  to  be  impatient.  1  hope  to  be  pa- 
tient. God  has  done  with  me  what  is  right ;  and 
so  he  will  do  with  me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  dear  Oliver,  so  we  trust,^  and  so  we  will 
believe. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  and  so  I  do.  God  might  inclose 
me  in  himself,  and  let  me  look  through  the  eyes 
of  his  omnipresence  ;  and  if  he  did,  I  should  see, 
in  the  infinite,  the  mystic  order  to  which  the 
starry  systems  move  ;  and  in  a  drop  of  water,  I 
should  witness  the  roomy  space  there  is  for  the 
movements  of  a  thousand  lives  ;  I  should  know 
the  way  in  which  the  armies  of  heaven  are  placed, 
and  the  wise  purpose  there  is  in  the  succession  of 
human  generations,  as  they  are  born  and  die.  I 
should  look  into  the  mysteries  of  eternity,  and 
feel  that  in  human  suffering  God's  love  is  the 
same    as    in    the    blessedness    of   the    angels.      I 


60  EUTHANASY. 

should  see,  all  round  the  wide  earth,  how  good 
all  things  are  in  their  relation  to  the  everlasting 
whole.  And  then,  looking  up  the  heights  of  heav- 
en, and  down  the  depths  of  life,  I  should  feel  the 
goodness  of  the  universe.  And  on  seeing  my 
own  lot  left  empty  amongst  men,  T  should  then 
long  to  return  to  it  and  fill  it.  Yes,  if  only  for  a 
moment  I  saw  that  look  which  always  the  uni- 
verse has  to  God,  I  should  pray  the  Father  for 
ever,  out  of  my  whole  heart  and  the  joy  of  it, 
"  Thy  will  be  done  ;  thy  will  be  done.''  I 
should  be  happy  for  one  glimpse  of  what  life 
really  is.  But  I  may  be  happier  without  it ;  be- 
cause through  faith  we  may  be  more  blessed  than 
through  our  mere  eyesight.  For  a  man  to  see, 
and  so  believe,  is  well ;  but  blessed  are  they  who 
do  not  see,  and  yet  believe.  Sorrow  and  pain  ! 
^  I  will  bear  them.  Lord  !  I  will  bear  them.  Not 
yet,  O,  not  yet,  would  I  pray  to  be  taken  out  of 
this  world  !  Awhile,  awhile  longer  may  this 
chastening  last.  Lord  !  let  it  end,  not  when  I 
will,  but  when  thou  wilt.  O,  there  are  fields  in 
the  universe,  so  wide,  and  on  which  God's  glory 
shines  brightly  and  for  ever,  and,  O,  so  blessedly  ! 
But  I  would  not  enter  on  them  yet,  —  not  yet. 
This  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  I  will  wait 
in  ;  and  I  could  wish  to  have  the  shadow  of  death 
on  me,  till  my  soul  has  fully  and  rightly  felt  it. 
A  spirit  I  am,  and  so  is  God.     And  like  a  spirit 


c^ 


EUTHANASY.  61 

with  a  spirit,  is  all  which  he  does  with  me.  A 
soul,  a  living  soul,  I  am  ;  and  I  will  think  this 
strongly,  and  so  (ee]  myself  to  be  God's.  And 
God's  I  am  for  ever.  And  bright  and  beautiful 
is  what  his  eye  ocks  on,  as  my  place  in  heaven, 
thai  is  to  be. 


62  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  VIl. 

My  soul  such  pleasure  oft  in  sleep  receives, 

That  death  begins  to  seem  a  plecuant  thing, 

Not  to  be  armed,  perchance,  with  such  a  sting, 

Or  taste  so  bitter,  as  the  world  conceives. 
For  if  the  mind  alone  sees,  hears,  believes. 

While  every  limb  is  dead  and  languishing, 

And  greatest  pleasure  to  herself  can  bring 

When  least  the  body  feels,  and  least  perceives, 
Well  may  the  hope  be  cherished,  that,  when  quite 

Loosed  from  the  burden  of  her  earthly  chain, 

She  hears,  and  sees,  and  knows  her  true  delight. 
Rejoice,  thou  troubled  spirit !  though  in  pain. 

If  thou  canst  take,  even  here,  so  sweet  a  flight, 

What  wilt  thou  in  thy  native  seats  again  7 

Sannazaro. 

One  weary  evening  in  illness,  I  fell  asleep,  it 
having  been  just  before  a  subject  of  prayer  with 
me,  that  God  would  grant  me  a  right  frame  of 
mind  to  die  in.  For,  as  I  said  to  myself  at  the 
end  of  my  prayer,  "  It  would  be  dreadful  in 
death  if  sight  were  to  fail  me,  and  I  could  see  no 
friendly  face,  and  hearing  were  to  fail  me,  and  1 
could  hear  no  comforting  voice,  and  in  my  soul 
there  were  to  be  doubts  and  an  agony  of  doubt." 
And  as  1  thought  this,  weakness  overcame  me, 
and  I  slept ;  and  very  soon  I  dreamed. 

And  in  my  dream  1  heard  voices  and  footsteps. 
And  it  was  as  though  many  persons  were  going 


EUTHANASY.  63 

to  and  fro,  in  great  gladness  and  in  light.  But  I 
could  not  myself  see  at  all,  and  I  was  like  one 
blind.  And  1  was  persuaded  that  I  had  died  in 
my  sleep,  and  that  I  was  at  the  gate  of  the  city 
of  God,  and  unable  to  enter  in,  on  account  of  my 
darkness.  And  I  was  afraid  to  move  ;  for  I  did 
not  know  but  that,  in  one  step,  I  might  fall  head- 
long from  the  narrow  way  that  leads  into  life. 
And  I  said  in  myself,  "  Unblessed  art  thou,  and 
not  able  to  see  God  ;  and  thou  must  have  died  in 
impurity  of  heart ;  and  always,  always  thou  wert 
fearful,  and  like  one  not  quite  beheving."  I  was 
terrified.  I  felt,  as  it  were,  the  pit  of  destruction 
yawning  against  me  ;  I  was  to  be  an  example  of 
the  just  judgment  of  God  ;  and  in  my  end  was  to 
be  seen  how,  without  any  great  wandering,  the 
path  of  the  commandment  may  be  kept  up  to  the 
last  step,  and  that  last  step  be  perdition,  through 
weakness  of  faith.  O  the  dread  J  was  in,  and 
the  terror  ! 

I  listened,  and  there  was  silence.  It  was  as 
though  all  things  were  hushed  by  the  awfulness  of 
what  was  to  happen  to  me.  I  was  there,  a  spec- 
tacle to  the  spirits  of  men  and  to  angels.  My 
faith  had  failed  me  at  the  very  last,  and  in  the 
littleness  of  it  1  was  to  perish.  There  were  wit- 
nesses of  my  wretchedness  nigh  me  ;  that  I  could 
feel  ;  and  I  could  feel  that  there  was  sorrow 
amongst  them.      And  within  myself   I  thought, 


64  EUTHANASY. 

''  Thy  unbelief  was  thy  own  misery  on  earth,  and 
now,  at  the  very  gate  of  heaven,  it  is  a  grief  to 
the  angels,  and  it  is  what  God  has  no  pleasure  in." 
And  now,  at  once,  I  was  calm.  Hell  might  be 
under  my  feet,  but  it  could  not  open,  except  by 
the  will  of  God  ;  and  that  blessed  will  was  what 
I  would  pray  to  have  done,  though  destruction 
had  hold  of  my  feet  the  while.  I  bowed  my 
head,  and  covered  my  face  with  my  hands,  and  I 
cried,  "  Though  he  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in 
him."  Then  a  voice  of  triumph  said,  "  Now  he 
has  overcome,  and  has  got  the  victory  !  "  And 
other  glad  voices  said,  "  The  victory,  the  victo- 
ry !  "  But  there  was  one  which  said,  "  Almost, 
he  has." 

For  a  moment  I  could  see,  and  then  I  was 
blind  again.  When  I  feared,  then  I  was  in  a 
horror  of  darkness  ;  but  every  hopeful  thought 
flashed  through  me,  like  lightning  out  of  a  mid- 
night sky.  I  wondered  what  was  to  happen. 
But  happen  what  might,  I  thought  I  could  perish 
gladly,  if  it  were  by  the  will  of  God,  and  for 
God's  good  purpose. 

And  now,  with  this  perfect  love  of  God,  my 
fear  was  cast  out.  And  I  was  not  in  blindness 
any  longer.  The  God  whom  I  loved,  I  could  see 
by.  I  could  see  ;  and,  O,  by  what  a  light  !  For 
there  was  no  shadow  in  it,  because  it  did  not 
shine   from  a  sun  or  a  moon,  or  from  any  one 


EUTHANASY.  65 

quarter.  But  it  was  uncreated  light,  and  was  the 
visible  presence  of  God,  and  was  itself  a  joy  to 
see  by. 

There  were  spirits  standing  round  me.  And 
some  of  them  I  knew,  by  their  looks,  were  natives 
of  the  same  world  as  myself.  But  towards  oth- 
ers, I  felt  as  though  I  did  not  know  them,  and 
yet  as  though  I  knew  them  well.  O  the  blessed- 
ness which  went  through  me  from  their  looks  ! 
Compassed  about  with  them,  it  was  as  though  I 
could  have  remained  for  ever,  and  not  have  mov- 
ed. But  behind  those  who  were  nearest  me,  I 
saw  standing  a  friend  of  mine,  who  had  died 
many  years  before.  His  face  was  glorified  ;  but 
vi^hether  it  was  changed  or  not,  I  cannot  tell. 
His  look  made  the  same  feeling  in  me  that  his 
best  words  used  to  do,  and  so  it  was  I  knew  him, 
as  I  think.  And  I  saw  another  person  whom 
I  knew.  Then  I  said,  "  O  my  brethren,  am  I 
then  amongst  you,  at  last  ?  And  am  I  come  out 
of  the  earth  so  safely  ?  " 

Then  I  learned  that  I  had  yet  to  die.  And 
many  high  things  were  said  to  comfort  and  en- 
courage me.  I  was  in  a  tumult  of  glory,  and 
joy,  and  wonder.  Then  I  asked,  "  Shall  I  re- 
member these  great  things  when  I  come  to  die  .''  " 
And  then  one  answered,  "  No.  Nor  in  the  body 
will  he  remember  them  at  all.  For  of  the  way 
of  our  spiritual  life  no  knowledge  can  be  kept  by 
.5 


66  EUTHANASY. 

a  dweller  of  earth.  But  let  them  that  have  come 
out  of  the  earth  tell  him  what  earthly  words  of 
theirs  have  proved  the  truest,  and  he  will  remem- 
ber them." 

And  the  first  who  spoke  was  one  who  had 
been  a  minister  of  Christ's  in  the  town  of  my 
birth,  but  who  had  died  a  century  and  a  half  be- 
fore I  was  born  ;  for  it  was  Richard  Baxter  who 
spoke,  and  it  was  as  though  he  knew  me.  His 
name  had  been  known  and  loved  by  me  as  a  little 
child,  with  a  love  which  I  learned  from  my  dear 
mother.  And  so,  through  earnest  gazing  on  his 
face,  I  did  not  hear  his  words  quite  exactly.  But 
as  nearly  as  I  remember,  he  said,  "  Never  be 
persuaded  that  ever  a  soul  will  be  cast  out,  which 
humbly,  and  earnestly,  and  with  many  prayers, 
has  sought  its  God." 

Then  Robert  Leighton  looked  at  me  and  said, 
"  You,  in  your  thoughts,  shut  up  death  into  a 
very  narrow  compass,  namely,  into  the  moment 
of  your  expiring.  But  the  truth  is,  it  goes  through 
all  your  life  ;  for  you  are  still  losing  and  spend- 
ing life,  as  you  enjoy  it." 

The  next  who  spoke  was  one  whom  I  knew 
to  be  John  Wickliffe,  and  he  said,  "  Men  should 
not  fear,  except  on  account  of  sin,  or  the  losing 
of  virtues  ;  since  pain  is  just,  and  according  to 
the  will  of  God.  And  the  joy  which  saints  have, 
when  they  suffer  thus,  is  a  manner  of  bliss  which 


EUTHANASY.  67 

belongs  to  them  in  the  earth  ;  and  it  may  be  more 
of  joy  to  them  than  all  their  worldly  desires." 

And  then  some  one  said,  "  You  may  not  look, 
at  your  pleasure,  to  come  to  heaven  in  a  feather- 
bed. It  is  not  the  way.  For  our  Lord  himself 
came  hither  with  great  pain  and  many  tribulations  ; 
that  was  the  path  wherein  he  walked  hither.  And 
the  servant  may  not  look  to  be  in  better  case  than 
his  Master."  He  who  spoke  thus  stood  so  that 
I  could  not  see  him,  but  by  what  he  said  I  knew 
that  he  was  Thomas  More. 

"  Reflect  on  death  as  in  Jesus  Christ,  not  as 
without  Jesus  Christ.  Without  Jesus  Christ  it  is 
dreadful,  it  is  alarming,  it  is  the  terror  of  nature. 
In  Jesus  Christ,  it  is  fair  and  lovely,  it  is  good 
and  holy,  it  is  the  joy  of  the  saints."  These 
were  Pascal's  words  to  me. 

Then  one  who  stood  next  to  Pascal  looked  at 
me.  Him  I  did  not  know  ;  but  when  he  spoke, 
I  knew  him  by  his  words  to  be  Thomas  a  Kem- 
pis.  And  he  said,  "  When  the  hour  of  your 
trial  comes,  do  you  pray,  —  O  God,  dearly  lov- 
ed !  this  hour,  it  is  right  that  thy  creature  should 
suffer  something  from  thee,  and  for  thee.  O  Fa- 
ther, the  hour  is  come  for  him,  w^hich  from  all 
eternity  thou  hast  foreknown  would  come,  that 
thy  servant  should  lie  prostrate  at  thy  door  ;  but. 
Lord,  do  thou  let  him  in  to  be  with  thee,  O,  for 
ever  !     For  a  little  while  must  t  be  nothing,  and 


bo  EUTHANASY. 

I  must  fail  in  the  sight  of  men,  and  I  must  be 
worn  with  suffering  and  weakness.  But  it  is  all 
so  that  I  may  rise  in  the  dawn  of  a  new  light,  and 
grow  glorious  in  heaven.  Holy  Father  !  so  thou 
hast  ordered  it ;  and  what  is  done  and  is  doing  on 
me  is  thy  decree." 

When  this  prayer  for  my  learning  was  ended, 
Augustine  exclaimed,  "  O  this  life  which  God 
has  laid  up  in  store  for  them  that  love  him,  —  this 
life  indeed  !  This  happy,  safe,  and  most  lovely, 
this  holy  life  !  This  life  which  fears  no  death, 
which  feels  no  sorrow,  which  knows  no  sin  ! 
This  perfect  love  and  harmony  of  souls  !  This 
day  that  never  declines,  ■ —  this  light  that  never 
goes  out  !  Think  of  its  blisses  and  glories,  and  so 
find  some  refreshment  from  the  miseries  and  toils 
of  a  perishing  life.  And  at  the  last,  recline  your 
weary  head  and  lay  you  down  to  sleep  with  joy  ; 
for  you  know  now  that  that  sleep  shall  be  shaken 
off  again,  and  the  blessedness  of  this  life  begin  at 
once  on  your  awaking." 

Then  a  voice  spoke  ;  and,  O,  it  was  so  clear, 
and  sweet,  and  grateful  !  and  it  was  the  voice  of 
Margaret  Fox  ;  and  she  said,  "  Now  these  have 
finished  their  course  and  their  testimony,  and  are 
entered  into  their  eternal  rest  and  felicity.  1 
trust  in  the  same  powerful  God,  that  his  holy 
arm  and  power  will  carry  thee  through  whatever 
he  hath  yet  for  thee  to  do  ;  and  that  he  will  be 


EUTHANASY.  6*1 

thy  Strength  and  support,  and  the  bearer  up  of 
thy  head  unto  the  end,  and  in  the  end.  For  I 
know  his  faithfulness  and  goodness,  and  1  have 
experience  of  his  love.  To  whom  be  glory  and 
powerful  dominion  for  ever.      Amen." 

All  that  were  standing  by  said  Amen,  like  one 
voice.     And  with  Amen  upon  my  lips,  I  awoke. 

I  was  sitting  by  the  fire.  And  in  my  hand 
there  was  a  book,  into  which  I  had  copied  many 
things  from  my  reading.  From  this  dream  I  in- 
ferred that  we  mortals  have  all  the  knowledge  of 
the  world  to  come  which  we  can  have,  and  all 
the  assurance  of  it  which  is  good  for  us,  and  that, 
for  a  believer  in  earnest,  the  right  feeling  towards 
the  next  life  is  hope,  and  not  fear.  And  from 
my  dream  I  learned  that  sympathy  with  saints 
gone  hence  brings  us  into  that  state  of  mind  that 
is  most  firmly  persuaded  of  the  heavens,  into 
which  they  have  entered. 


70  EUTHANASr. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

Death  is  another  life.     We  bow  our  heada 

At  going  out,  we  think,  and  enter  straight 

Another  golden  chamber  of  the  king's, 

Larger  than  thia  we  leave,  and  lovelier.  — P.  J.  Bailbt 

And  the  pure  soul  emancipate  by  death. 
The  Enlarger,  shall  attain  its  end  predoomed, 
The  eternal  newness  of  eternal  joy.  —  Southbt. 

MARHAM. 

I  HAVE  been  reading  your  dream,  Oliver. 
There  is  wisdom  in  it.  And  I  like  it  much,  and 
so  I  do  the  sonnet  from  the  Italian. 

AUBIN. 

But  of  course  you  do  not  think  it  my  transla- 
tion ;  for  I  am  no  poet. 

MARHAM. 

^j  yes,  you  are,  according  to  what  you  quoted 
this  morning,  from  some  one  :  — 

Poets  are  all  who  love,  who  feel  great  truths, 
And  tell  them ;  and  the  ti'uth  of  truths  is  love. 

AUBIN. 

What  book  is  that  which  you  have  been  read- 
ing, uncle  ? 

MARHAM. 

A  treatise  by  Peter  Huet,  on  whereabouts 
Paradise  was.     It  was  written  in  the  seventeenth 


EUTHANASY.  71 

century,  like  many,  and  perhaps  most,  of  the 
books  on  that  subject.  I  think  myself,  that  Par- 
adise was  in  Asia,  certainly. 

AUBIN. 

I  dare  say  it  was. 

BIARHAM. 

You  are  not  interested  in  the  subject  ? 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle  ;  or  rather,  I  do  not  mind  reading 
those  books.  Paradise  is  not  so  lost  as  is  some- 
times thought.  The  garden  of  Eden  is  now 
spread  out  into  the  width  of  the  world.  Our 
homes  are  bowers  in  it ;  our  roads  are  walks  in 
it ;  and  always  within  reach  hang  forbidden  fruits, 
though  now  they  are  such  as  are  often  their  own 
punishment  in  the*  eating, — apples  of  Sodom, 
golden  in  the  rind  and  dust  inside.  There  is  in 
the  garden  still  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil,  and  this  we  may  eat  of  now  ;  for  it  is 
full  grown,  and  the  fruit  of  it  is  ripe.  And  by 
eating  of  it,  we,  too,  have  our  eyes  opened,  and 
so  are  able  to  recognize,  as  the  very  tree  of  life, 
what  otherwise  looks  deadly,  and  itself  dead  wood ; 
I  mean  the  tree  of  the  crucifixion. 

MARHAM. 

That  life  is  lost  by  seeking  to  save  it,  and  is 
saved  by  willingness  to  lose  it,  is  very  hardly,  and 
not  very  often,  believed  ;  though  most  persons  do 
think  they  believe  it. 


72  EUTHANASY. 

AUBTN. 

The  tree  to  be  desired  to  make  one  wise  may 
be  eaten  of  now,  and  so  men  do  not  mind  it ; 
many  of  them  do  not,  and  so  their  eyes  are  never 
opened  ;  and  so,  being  blind,  they  fail  of  the  fruit 
of  the  tree  of  life. 

MARHAM. 

You  would  say,  then,  that  only  by  eating  of  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  can  men 
know  that  the  world  is  a  garden  of  Eden,  with  the 
tree  of  life  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

But  that  now  it  is  death  who  is  in  it,  to  dress 
it,  and  to  keep  it,  none  fail  of  knowing ;  though 
to  some  he  appears  to  be  a  spoiler  of  the  garden  ; 
and  he  looks  an  enemy  of  God,  instead  of  being 
a  servant  and  one  to  be  trusted  in  by  us  crea- 
tures, fully,  if  not  fondly.  And  this  is  through 
men's  not  taking  of  the  tree  of  the  knowledge  of 
good  and  evil  ;  because  if  death  came  into  the 
world  with  the  forbidden  eating  of  that  fruit,  it  is 
the  ordained  eating  of  it  that  opens  our  eyes,  so 
as  to  see  in  death  an  angel  of  light,  toiling  in 
earthly  guise  among  us  earthly  creatures. 

MARHAM. 

Levelling  us  with  the  dust,  out  of  which  we 
were  made. 

AUBIN. 

But  into  which  we  do  not  altogether,  nor 
mainly,  die. 


EUTHANASY.  73 

MARHAM. 

So  we  trust.  But  it  is  not  what  death  does 
that  makes  us  hope  the  more.  It  is  with  his  soul 
in  his  face,  that  man  can  be  beheved  immortal. 
But  to  me,  a  dead  body 

AUBIN. 

Is  no  discouraging  sight.  For  there  is  God 
about  it.  And  his  adorable  will  is  as  plain  in  the 
departure  as  it  is  in  the  presence  of  life.  The 
body  of  a  saint  is  a  temple  of  God,  from  which 
the  minister  has  withdrawn,  and  in  which  service 
is  ended,  and  from  which  the  Lord  has  accepted 
the  prayer,  '^  Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart 
in  peace." 

MARHAM. 

You  have  so  many  pleasant  images  for  death, 
Oliver,  in  talking  of  it !  I  suppose  it  is  from  your 
remembering  death  in  your  cheerfulness. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  I  would  wish  to  remember  it  more  fa- 
miHarly.  Eating  and  drinking,  I  would  wish  to 
remember  death  ;  not  by  drinking  out  of  a  human 
skull,  as  some  have  done  in  loving  remembrance, 
and  others  out  of  hostile  triumph  ;  but  I  would 
eat  my  food,  bethinking  me  often  that  any  morsel 
may  be  my  last.  This  would  be  a  solemnity 
that  from  its  very  commonness  could  not  continue 
mournful,  but  might  be  profitable  always. 


74  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Death  never  ought  to  be  a  painful  thought  with 
any  one,  because  it  ought  to  be  so  common,  — 
such  a  daily  expectation. 

AUBIN. 

It  ought  not  to  be  shrunk  from  for  its  novelty. 
It  is  not  as  though  we  were  the  first  or  the  sec- 
ond of  our  race,  or  as  though  we  belonged  to  the 
second  or  to  the  third  generation  of  our  kind.  It 
is  not  as  though  none  or  only  a  few  had  ever 
died,  and  we  were  to  be  of  the  earliest.  Only 
since  the  decease  of  Charlemagne,  there  have 
died  twenty-five  times  a  thousand  millions  of  our 
fellow-creatures.  Let  us  weep  with  the  bereav- 
ed that  weep,  and  feel  along  with  those  that  are 
ill,  and  those  that  are  dying  ;  and  then  down  to 
the  grave  will  be  like  a  path  we  know  well,  and 
too  well  to  be  frightened  on  it. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  not  by  chance,  but  through  God,  that  we 
come  to  an  end.  Many  ways  does  God  speak 
to  us  creatures  of  his,  as  in  the  events  of  life, 
from  the  Bible,  and  from  within  our  hearts  ;  and 
I  trust  that  we  have  listened  to  that  Divine  voice 
often  enough,  to  know  the  tone  of  it  at  once  and 
everywhere.  Because,  when  we  are  spoken  to, 
and  have  our  souls  required  of  us,  we  shall  know 
then  that  we  are  spoken  to  by  the  loving  voice  of 
bur  Father  in  heaven  ;  and   we  shall  answer,  as  T 


EUTHANASY.  75 

hope,  O,  so  willingly  !  —  "  Lord,  now  lettest  thou 
thy  servant  come  to  thee  in  peace." 

AUBIN. 

And  that  we  shall  say  and  feel,  I  hope,  and  no 
doubt  we  shall,  if  we  have  often  said  to  God 
before,  "Thy  will  be  done."  We  live  in  one 
another  ;  father  and  mother  in  their  children,  hus- 
band and  wife  in  one  another,  and  some  few 
friends  in  one  another.  So  that  we  most  of  us 
die  more  than  once,  before  we  die  of  disease. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  same  way  as  Erasmus  said  of  his  friend 
Sir  Thomas,  "  It  seems  as  though  in  More  I 
myself  had  been  killed." 

AUBIN. 

When  death  takes  those  we  love,  then  we  love 
death.  Those  who  are  alone  in  the  world  are  as 
though  they  had  been  left  for  sleep  ;  and  death 
comes  over  them  Hke  a  sleep,  for  they  are  not 
unwilling. 

MARHAM. 

Not  once,  nor  one  thousand  times,  but  more 
than  fifty  thousand  times,  I  have  been  to  sleep  ; 
so  that  I  ought  not  to  be  afraid  to  die  now.  And 
to  my  feelings,  the  evening  of  life  ought  to  deepen 
on  to  the  obscurity  of  the  grave,  as  pleasantly  as 
dusk  gets  dark. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  just  so  ;  and  exactly  so.     There 


76  EUTHANASY. 

is  no  universal  night  in  this  earth,  and  for  us  in 
the  universe,  there  is  no  death.  What  is  to  us 
here  night  coming  on  is,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
earth,  night  ending,  and  day  begun.  And  so  what 
we  call  death  the  angels  may  regard  as  immortal 
birth  ;  and  so  they  do,  as  we  may  well  believe. 

MARHAM. 

So  they  do,  very  often,  we  may  be  sure.  In 
the  early  days  of  the  Christian  Church,  what  day 
a  Christian  died  on  was  spoken  of  as  that  of  his 
birth,  — his  birth  into  a  higher  existence. 

AUBIN. 

Through  the  body  and  its  wants,  I  am  held 
down  to  the  earth's  surface,  and  to  its  customs 
and  employments  ;  and  so  I  am  kept  out  of  heav- 
en, and  from  off  the  bosom  of  God,  and  from  the 
company  of  Christ,  and  out  of  the  rapture  of  the 
angels. 

MARHAM. 

God  help  us  !  God  make  us  sure  of  that  hap- 
piness at  last !  God  make  us  ready  for  it,  —  for 
that  joy  unspeakable  ! 

AUBIN. 

The  day  of  our  decease  will  be  that  of  our 
coming  of  age  ;  and  with  our  last  breath  we  shall 
become  free  of  the  universe.  And  in  some  re- 
gion of  infinity,  and  from  among  its  splendors, 
this  earth  will  be  looked  back  on  like  a  lowly 
home,  and  this  life  of  ours  be  remembered  like 
a  short  apprenticeship  to  Duty. 


EUTHANASY. 


77 


CHAPTER  IX. 

This  is  the  prerogative  of  the  noblest  natures,  —  that  their  departure  to 
higher  regions  exercises  a  no  less  blessed  influence  than  did  their  abode  on 
earth ;  that  they  lighten  us  from  above,  like  stars  by  which  to  steer  our 
course,  often  interrupted  by  storms.  —  Goethb. 

MARHAM. 

Any  thing  a  dead  man  leaves  behind  him,  un- 
finished, makes  one  feel  so  strangely  the  nothing- 
ness of  human  purposes  !  I  remember  the  pain 
in  which  I  once  saw  what  would  have  been  a 
very  beautiful  picture,  only  it  was  not  finished  ; 
for  the  painter  had  died  very  suddenly.  And 
once  I  was  in  the  studio  of  a  sculptor  who  was 
lately  deceased  ;  and  I  was  much  affected  by  the 
appearance  of  a  statue,  the  nobleness  of  which 
was  just  being  brought  out  of  the  marble  when 
the  artist  died.  And  whatever  purpose  death 
cuts  a  man  off  from  has  for  his  surviving  friends 
a  look 

AUBIN. 

As  though  it  had  been  shone  on  by  light  not 
of  this  world. 

MARHAM. 

But  it  is  sad,  when  genius  dies  with  its  work 
unfinished. 


78  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I  do  not  think  so,  uncle.  Besides,  when 
would  genius  finish  its  work,  —  all  the  work  it 
could  do  ?  For  its  growing  grandeur  would  al- 
ways have  fresh  excellence  to  show. 

MARHAM. 

Ay  so,  you  are  right.  But  Spenser's  Fairy 
Queen,  incomplete  for  ever 

AUBIN. 

Is  a  broken  sentence  ;  and  what  ought  to  be 
the  end  of  it  is  most  eloquent  silence.  Spenser's 
writing  is  so  vivid,  that  recollection  of  what  he 
says  is  like  a  voice  speaking  in  one's  brain.  I 
shut  my  eyes,  and  then  the  poet  himself  is  with 
me  ;  and  he  tells  me  of  Prince  Arthur  and  his 
friends,  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  virtue  itself  feel 
more  virtuous  still  ;  then  he  stops,  when  he  has 
only  half  told  what  he  began ;  then  there  is  a 
word  and  half  another  word  ;  and  then  Spenser 
says  no  more.  Then  I  am  thoughtful,  and  an 
awe  comes  over  me.  For  of  the  poet's  having 
died  I  do  not  think.  And  it  is  as  though  Spen- 
ser had  been  changed  while  talking  with  me. 
And  then  I  think  how,  to  the  angels,  this  whole 
earth  looks  hke  a  Mount  of  Transfiguration.  And 
feel  afresh  how  this  is  a  scene  in  which  men  be- 
come spirits,  and  blessed  spirits,  if  they  like. 

MARHAM. 

And  such  we  will  hope  Spenser  is. 


EUTHANASYi  79 

AUBIN. 

There  have  not  been  very  many  men  of  whom 
it  could  be  better  hoped  than  of  Spenser,  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

I  think  he  was  certainly  a  good  man,  Oliver, 
because  out  of  the  heart  are  the  issues  of  life  ; 
and  Spenser's  heart  was  full  of  the  beauty  of  a 
moral  life. 

AUBIN. 

Now  and  then,  he  either  has  or  makes  occasion 
to  say  things,  which,  from  most  other  men,  would 
be  lustful  incentives  ;  but  from  him  they  do  not 
sound  so. 

MARHAM. 

Showing  how,  to  the  pure,  all  things  are  pure. 

AUBIN. 

So  what  you  said  of  another  we  say  of  you, 
O  Edmund  Spenser  !  your  virtue  is  the  bright- 
ness of  your  honor  on  earth,  and  elsewhere  it  is 
the  reason 

For  which  enrolled  is  your  glorious  name 

In  heavenly  registers  above  the  sun, 

Where  you,  a  saint,  with  saints  your  seat  have  won. 

MARHAM. 

He  lies  buried 

4  AUBIN. 

Not  he,  but  his  body  does. 

MARHAM. 

In  Westminster  Abbey,  I  think. 


HO  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  and  nigh  the  grave  of  the  poet 
Chaucer.     Yes,  and  Geoffrey  Chaucer  was  he 

That  left,  half  told, 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold. 

He  is  another  of  those  who  have  gone  away  with 
the  word  in  their  mouths,  and  who  have  left  us  to 
feel  as  though  that  word  were  to  be  spoken  yet, 
and  we  to  hear  it. 

MARHAM. 

I  will  read  you  the  last  lines  that  Chaucer 
wrote.  They  are  the  end  of  what  is  called  the 
Good  Counsel  of  Chaucer,  and  are  said  to  have 
been  made  by  him  upon  his  death-bed,  while  ly- 
ing in  his  great  anguish. 

That  thee  is  sent,  receive  in  buxomness. 
The  wrestling  with  this  world  asketh  a  fall. 
Here  is  no  home  ;  here  is  but  wilderness  ; 
Forth,  pilgrim,  forth  I     O  beast  out  of  thy  stall ! 
Look  up  on  high,  and  thank  thy  God  of  all. 
Waive  thou  thy  lust,  and  let  thy  ghost  thee  lead, 
And  tnith  thee  shall  deliver ;  't  is  no  dread. 

AUBIN. 

Or,  as  I  have  seen  the  last  line  modernized, 

Truth  to  thine  own  heart 
Thy  soul  shall  save. 

A  choice  couplet,  is  not  it,  uncle  ? 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps  it  is.  But  I  should  feel  the  worth  of 
it  better,  if  you  were  to  recite  the  poem  itself 
that  you  quote  from.     Now  will  you  .'* 


EUTHANASY.  81 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  what  I  remember  of  it,  I  will. 

Britain's  first  poet, 
Famous  old  Chaucer, 
Swan-like,  in  dying 

Sung  Ms  last  song, 
When  at  his  heart-strings 

Death's  hand  was  strong. 

"  Earth  is  a  desert, 
Thou  art  a  pilgrim : 
Led  by  thy  spirit, 

Grace  from  God  crave ; 
Truth  to  thine  own  heart 

Thy  soul  shall  save." 

Dead  through  long  ages 
Britain's  first  poet,  — 
Still  the  monition 

Sounds  from  his  grave, 
"  Truth  to  thine  own  heart 

Thy  soul  shall  save." 

Chaucer  of  the  fresh,  green  memory,  —  blessings 
be  with  him  !  For  him  utterly  dead,  dead  both 
in  body  and  soul,  we  cannot  think.  And  so  he 
helps  our  faith  in  immortality. 

MARHAM. 

Thank  you,  Oliver.     But  what  book  are  you 
looking  for  ? 

AUBIN. 

The  Fairy  Queen.     I  have  found  it.     I  want 

to   see  what  were    Spenser's   last  lines.     Now, 

uncle,   I  am  right,  am  I  not,  in  having  a  liking 

even  for  the  incompleteness  of  some  of  our  great- 

6 


0»  EUTHANASY. 

er  authors  ?  We  hear  a  poet  singing  ;  and  while 
we  listen,  we  are  bettered,  and  silent,  and  we 
are  enraptured.  Then,  while  we  are  listening  so 
eagerly,  the  voice  dies  away  into  silence  and  into 
heaven.  And  so  for  a  while  heaven  feels  the 
nigher  us,  and  to  our  earthly  apprehensions  the 
more  real. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  you  make  me  feel  the  same  as  yourself. 
Well,  now  what  are  the  last  lines  of  Spenser  ? 
They  are  part  of  what  was  to  have  been  a  canto 
in  a  seventh  book,  I  suppose. 

ATJBIN. 

Now  when  you  remember  that  Spenser  was  in- 
tending six  more  books  for  his  poem,  do  not 
these  very  last  lines  look  as  though,  while  he 
wrote  them,  another  hand  had  been  laid  upon  his 
hand,  and  had  guided  it  prophetically  ? 

MARHAM. 

In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death. 

AUBIN. 

And  in  the  very  middle  of  what  Spenser  thought 
was  his  great  work,  he  died  ;  and  the  lines  that 
happened  to  be  the  last  from  his  pen  are  as  though 
they  had  been  meant  against  his  death  :  — 

For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  delight. 
But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 
With  Him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  hi;j:ht ; 
O  !  that  great  Sabaoth  Grod,  grant  me  that  Sabbath's  sight. 


EUTHANASY.  83 

Now,  ill  the  very  midst  of  his  work,  is  not  it  as 
though  the  poet's  hand  had  been  unconsciously 
guided  into  writing  a  prayer  against  the  death  that 
was  just  upon  him  ? 

BIARHAM. 

In  .he  midst  of  his  diligence  he  longed  for 
heaven  ;  and  that  instant,  it  opened  to  him. 
Some  might  call  this  chance  ;  but  I  would  not, 
nor  would  any,  I  think,  who  have  lived  piously 
and  watchfully  ;  for  such  persons  know  the  power 
prayer  has  to  bring  us  nigh  to  God,  and  they 
xnow  how  holiness  can  refine,  almost  into  film, 
what  separates  our  souls  from  the  Soul  they  live 
in  ;  and  so  they  know  that,  even  in  this  earth, 
something  of  the  light  of  heaven  is  possible,  in 
some  minds. 

AUBIN. 

Dear  uncle,  you  have  said  what  T  quite  agree 
with  ;  and  it  is  a  great  truth. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  do  you  remember  any  other  authors 
who  have  died  and  left  unfinished  works  behind 
them  ?  There  must  be  many  ;  but  I  cannot  re- 
member any  of  them. 

AUBIN. 

Jean  Paul  Richter  died,  leaving  behind  him  a 
manuscript  he  had  not  been  able  to  finish.  It 
was  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  And  so 
while  expressing  his  faith  .in  an  hereafter,  Richter 


84  EUTHANASY. 

went  away  into  the  knowledge  of  it.  Frederick 
Schlegel  left  incomplete  what  was  to  have  been 
the  second  part  of  his  greatest  work.  He  was 
seized  with  death  at  his  writing-desk,  and  the  last 
word  he  wrote  was  But.  And  that  is  a  word 
death  scratches  with  his  dart,  at  the  end  of  the 
record  of  every  life.  A  man's  eyes  are  shut ; 
his  breath  is  stopped  ;  his  last  words  are  spoken, 
and  have  been  written  in  the  book  of  God's  re- 
membrance ;  but,  — ay,  ''  but  after  this,  the  judg- 
ment." Death  means  blessedness,  and  it  means 
perdition  ;  and  which  meaning  it  shall  have  for 
us  is  left  for  ourselves  to  fix.  There  is  given  us 
the  choice  of  two  pages,  for  our  lives  to  be  writ- 
ten on  ;  but  they  are  not  quite  blank,  and  if  we 
will  write  on  the  wrong  side,  then  we  write  our 
condemnation  with  our  own  hands  ;  for  at  the 
bottom  of  that  page  it  is  written  beforehand, 
"  But  after  this,  perdition." 

MARHAM. 

Did  not  Keats  leave  some  poem  unfinished  ? 

AUBIN. 

Some  poem,  uncle  !  Hyperion  he  left,  and  it 
was  as  a  fragment.  Now  I  will  read  you  what 
were  his  last  lines. 

Thus  the  god : 
While  his  enkindled  eyes,  with  level  glance 
Beneath  his  white,  soft  temples,  steadfast  kept 
Trembling  with  light  upon  Mnemosyne. 
Soon  wild  commotions  shook  him,  and  made  flush 


EUTHANASV.  fS& 

All  the  immortal  fairness  of  his  limbs,  — 
Most  like  the  struggle  at  the  gate  of  death, 
Or  liker  still  to  one  who  should  take  leavo 
Of  pale,  immortal  death,  and  with  a  pang 
As  hot  as  death's  is  chill,  with  fierce  convulse 
Die  into  life.     So  young  Apollo  anguished  ; 
His  rery  hair,  his  golden  tresses  famed, 
Kept  undulation  round  his  eager  neck. 
During  the  pain  Mnemosyne  upheld 
Her  arms  as  one  who  prophesied.  —  At  length 
Apollo  shrieked :  —  and  lo  !   from  all  his  limbs 
Celestial 

Celestial  was  the  last  word  Keats  wrote,  and 
then  he  himself  became  it.  Very  singular,  is  not 
it  ?  And  in  telling  what  Apollo  felt,  is  not  it  as 
though  Keats  had  himself  agonized  into  immor- 
tality ? 

MARHAM. 

He  is  a  very  vivid  writer ;  and  he  is  a  favorite 
of  yours,  Oliver,  is  not  he  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  For  my  experience  in  life  has 
been  not  very  unlike  what  his  was.  T  have  had 
worse  things  to  bear  than  he,  but  I  have  had  a 
stronger  body  to  endure  in  than  he  was  born  with. 
What  a  thought  this  is  !  — 

Where  soil  is,  men  grow, 
Whether  to  weeds  or  flowers  ;  but  for  me, 
There  is  no  depth  to  strike  in. 

This  I  used  to  say  every  day  of  my  life,  before  I 
knew  you,   uncle.      But   now  I   do  not,   O,  not 


86  EUTHANASY. 

now  !  For  I  have  your  love,  uncle,  and  I  am  al 
ease  in  my  mmd.  I  am  so  happy  to  what  I  was  ! 
and  sometimes  it  almost  frightens  me  to  feel  how 
happy  I  am.     But  I  must  not  talk  of  this. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  my  dear  Oliver 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  you  know  what  poor  Keats's  end  was. 
He  died  of  a  broken  heart  ;  or  rather  of  consump- 
tion, brought  on  by  wrongs  done  to  him,  and  by 
anxiety,  and  by  the  want  of  any  prosf  ect  in  life, 
such  as  any  one  of  ten  thousand  persons  might 
have  opened  to  him.  His  poems  are  testimonies 
of  the  world's  strange  character.  They  are  lov- 
ed, dearly  loved,  now  ;  but  now  the  author  can- 
not be  honored  nor  helped  in  life.  And  all  the 
greater  truths  that  are  in  the  world, — what  are 
they  ?  They  are  what  were  coined  by  wise  men 
out  of  their  experience.  And  then  did  they  pay 
them  away  ?  No  ;  but  they  gave  them,  like 
charity,  on  the  way-side  of  life.  The  noble  spir- 
its !  And  then  they  were  hooted,  like  the  utter- 
ers  of  base  coin  ;  and  if  any  one  of  them  had  a 
fast  friend,  he  was  scowled  at  and  suspected. 
This  wickedness,  uncle,  you  and  I  have  never 
been  guilty  of,  I  trust.  But  wherever  genius  is 
to  be  seen,  we  reverence  it  like  light  that  is  not 
without  a  something  divine  in  it  ;  and  we  do  not 
think  the  worse  of  a  man,  because,  in  the  world's 
darkness,  God  has  given  him  that  light  to  hold. 


EUTHANASY.  87 

MARHAM. 

Genius  often  has  ill  success  in  the  world. 

AUBIN. 

To  the  world's  great  shame  ;  for  genius  is  only 
a  genial  working  of  the  mind,  a  conjoint  action  of 
the  moral  and  the  intellectual  powers.  A  man  of 
the  highest  genius  is  a  highly  moral  and  a  highly 
religious  man,  and  a  man  of  infinite  love.  Is  he 
disabled  for  success  in  the  world,  —  for  getting 
money  and  friends  ^  So  he  is  in  some  respects  ; 
but  it  is  in  what  respects  are  immoral  and  irre- 
ligious. Men  of  some  genius  have  done  wrong 
things  ;  so  they  have,  for  they  were  men  ;  but 
they  would  have  done  worse  things  but  for  their 
genius.  A  man  of  perfect  genius  is  a  man  of 
trembling  sensibility,  of  the  greatest  delicacy  of 
feeling,  of  honesty  most  scrupulous,  and  of  a  tem- 
per to  help  the  needy  as  much  as  he  can.  The 
conduct  of  such  a  man  is  like  Christianity  in  ac- 
tion, and  very  often  it  is  not  very  unhke  Christ  in 
its  end,  in  this  world. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  you  are,  —  but  you  do  not  quite  mean 

Oliver,  our  Lord  Jesus  was  crucified,  and 

it  was  for  his  goodness.  Perhaps  it  was  impos- 
sible that  there  could  ever  be  a  greater  contrast 
than  there  was  between  Jesus  in  the  image  of- 
God,  and  the  Jewish  priesthood  in  their  priest- 
craft. Nothing  at  all  like  such  a  moral  contrast 
can  possibly  exist  now. 


88  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

O,  yes,  uncle,  there  does  ;  and  it  is  between 
Christianity  and  the  manners  of  the  world.  My 
dear  uncle,  you  know  nothing  of  life,  nothing  at 
all  of  the  badness  of  it.  I  do  not  mean  to  say, 
that  there  are  not  hundreds  and  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  positions,  in  which  men  may  and 
do  act  as  Christians.  But  I  do  mean  to  say,  that 
there  are  very  common  circumstances,  in  which  a 
man  fails,  as  a  matter  of  course,  if  he  does  to 
others  as  he  would  have  them  do  to  him. 

MARHAM. 

Do  you  think  it  would  prove  so,  Oliver,  if  it 
were  tried  ? 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  if  you  were  to  put  a  bit  of  gold  into  a 
bushel  of  pease,  and  the  measure  were  then  to  be 
well  shaken  for  a  time,  would  not  the  gold  go  to 
the  bottom  } 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Ohver,  it  would,  it  would. 

AUBIN. 

Through  having  genius,  does  a  man  fail  in  the 
world  ?  It  is  grandly,  and  like  the  dying  of  a 
martyr  ;  and  not  because  the  man  is  not  fit,  and 
the  best  fitted,  for  any  work,  the  lowliest  and  the 
highest. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  I  agree  with  you  quite.  I  have  been 
provoking  you  to  talk. 


EUTHANASY.  OV 

AUBIN. 

O  uncle,  have  you  ?  Then  you  will  agree  witli 
me  in  what  I  am  going  to  say. 

MARIIAM, 

What  is  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

That  the  way  in  which  often  genius  gets  treat- 
ed, in  this  life,  argues  there  being  a  life  to  come. 
Tf  there  were  no  grounds  given  us  for  expecting 
another  world,  still  it  might  be  believed  in,  and  it 
would  be,  by  some  few  better  persons,  though  it 
were  only  as  a  place  in  which  for  wisdom  to  be 
justified  of  her  children. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  I  do  quite  agree  with  you. 

AUBIN. 

Of  all  the  proofs  of  an  hereafter  offered  by  hu- 
man nature  itself,  to  my  mind  there  are  none  so 
conclusive  as  the  sufferings  of  the  righteous  for 
righteousness'  sake  ;  or  as  those  miseries  that  are 
brought  upon  a  man  through  his  goodness.  A 
man's  nature  has  been  too  good  for  the  sympathy 
of  his  fellow-creatures  ;  then  how  solemnly  sug- 
gestive this  is  of  what  must  surely  be  the  great 
love  of  God  for  it. 


90  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Still  in  the  soul  sounds  the  deep  underchime 
Of  some  immeasurable,  boundless  time. 

For  otherwise  why  thus  should  man  deplore 

To  part  with  bis  short  being  )    Why  thus  sigh 

O'er  things  which  fade  around  and  are  no  more,  — 

While,  heedless  of  their  doom,  they  live  and  die, 

And  yield  up  their  sweet  breaths,  nor  reason  why, — 

But  that  within  us,  while  so  fast  we  flee, 

The  image  dwells  of  God's  eternity.  —  Williams. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  I  know  what  that  feeling  is. 

MARHAM. 

All  the  good  I  have  done  seems  nothing,  and 
all  that  I  have  attempted  would  go  into  a  nutshell. 

AUBIN. 

A  nutshell  !  The  whole  world  would  go  into 
it,  seas,  mountains,  and  air.  So  Sir  Humphrey 
Davy  has  said. 

MARHAM. 

And  in  one  of  the  Psalms,  David  has  said  of 
God,  that  he  takes  up  the  isles  as  a  very  little 
thing.  And  we  that  live  on  the  islands,  what  are 
we  .''     Ants  on  molehills  we  are,  and  less  still. 

AITBIN. 

What  then  ?  For  the  less  we  feel  ourselves, 
the  better ;  the  meaner,  the  happier;  because,  like 


EUTHANASY, 


91 


a  medal,  character  has  two  sides,  and  humility  is 
always  the  obverse  of  greatness.  At  times,  not 
often,  indeed,  nor  long,  but  still  sometimes,  none 
are  so  weary  of  life  as  they  that  can  enjoy  it  most 
and  that  are  worthiest  of  it.  For  what  is  that 
weariness  ?  It  is  the  pining  of  a  great  heart  ;  it 
is  a  soul  craving  for  itself  some  work  worthy  of 
its  pains.  The  feeling  of  life's  nothingness  ar- 
gues a  mind  capable  of  heavenly  grandeur,  and  if 
capable,  then  made  for  it. 

MARHAM. 

So  we  will  hope. 

AUBIN. 

I  am  glad  there  is  no  everlastingness  in  the 
world,  and  that  I  know  it.  I  am  glad  the  world 
is  only  for  a  season,  for  me  and  my  fellow-spirits 
to  be  in.  It  makes  me  feel  myself.  Do  not  we 
know,  that  chambers  are  furnished,  and  are  beau- 
tified with  gold  and  silk,  for  princes  to  lodge  one 
night  in,  —  the, very  shortness  of  the  use  being 
the  greatness  of  the  honor  ?  And  so,  because  this 
beautiful  earth  is  only  for  so  short  a  time,  I  am 
sure  of  what  must  be  my  own  royalty. 

MARHAM. 

Royalty  ! 

AUBIN. 

Kingly  character,  then.  And  so  I  only  feel 
myself  what  Christ  has  made  me  ;  for  through 
him  I  am  a  king  and  a  priest  unto  God  and  the 
Father. 


92  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Now,  Oliver,  I  never  thought  of  that  passage 
so.  But  so  it  is,  that  one  man  sees  all  heaven 
through  a  text  which  to  another  reader  is  blank  of 
meaning. 

AUBIN. 

And  one  man  feels  himself  nothing  on  the 
earth,  while  another  feels  the  earth  nothing  under 
him.  But  both  ways  of  feeling  are  right  ;  but 
they  are  quite  right  only  when  they  are  moods  of 
the  same  mind.  _ 

MARHAM. 

I  think  so  ;  for,  in  itself,  life's  emptiness  is 
mournful  and  discouraging  to  feel. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  But,  uncle,  this  life  is  more  real  to 
you  now  than  it  was  in  your  youth.  For  now 
that  you  feel  yourself  a  living  soul,  eternity  feels 
your  element,  and  it  is  what  you  live  in  ;  for  they 
are  only  appearances  that  change,  reality  in  all 
things  being  eternal. 

MARHAM. 

I  do  not  think  I  understand  you,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

You  have  looked  through  death,  and  beyond  it, 
into  life  ;  this  you  have  done  ;  you  have  looked 
through  what  is  darkest,  and  so  now,  in  all  tem- 
poral things,  there  is  for  you  the  feeling  of  what 
is  beyond  and  eternal.     But  in  this  way,  when  life 


EUTHANASY.  y& 

becomes  nothing  to  us,  it  is  because  we  are  our- 
selves sublimed.  You  go  into  the  city,  and  it  is 
to  your  better  knowledge  that  luxury  is  a  look  only, 
and  not  a  joy  :  about  the  court  men  are  fretting 
for  coronets  and  collars,  but  it  is  to  your  more 
manly  judgment  that  these  things  are  bawbles  : 
in  his  study,  the  metaphysician  is  wearying  him- 
self with  thought,  and  he  does  most  of  it  in  vain, 
as  you  think  now  ;  but  this  is  because  your  spirit- 
ual experience  is  greater  than  it  was  once,  and 
because  you  are  sure  that  all  wise  thinking  about 
the  soul  must  end  in  the  wish  to  have  it  become 
as  a  little  child's.  And  this  earth  is  beautiful, 
very  beautiful,  but  then  you  feel  that  it  will  perish. 

MARHAM. 

Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps  so.  But  those  words  are  themselves 
no  vanity.  For  when  I  think  this  world  away 
into  nothingness,  then  where  is  my  soul  ?  It  is 
somewhere.  Where  is  it  ?  It  is  left  face  to  face 
with  God.  This  I  have  often  felt  for  a  moment ; 
not  more.  A  trance-like  feeling  !  The  very  awe 
of  which  made  me  remember  myself,  and  so 
brought  the  world  back  again  between  my  soul 
and  God.  What  are  those  lines,  uncle,  that  you 
quoted  last  night  ? 

MARIIAM. 

They  are  Samuel  Daniel's  :  — 


94  EUTHANASY. 

That  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man ! 

And  so  he  is. 

ATJBIN. 

Something  like  that  couplet  is  what  Coleridge 
has  written  in  his  biography,  that  we  were  indeed 

Trdvra  kouls,  kol  irdvra  yeXtos,  Ka\  navra  t6  fiTj8ev,  if  we 

did  not  feel  that  we  were  so.  Vanity  of  vanities 
Coleridge  would  have  been  himself,  only  that  he 
knew  he  was  ;  no!  he  felt  he  was.  For  because  of 
that  very  feeling,  he  knew  that  he  must  himself  be 
something  better.  That  I  am  dust,  and  laughter, 
and  nothing,  how  can  I  tell  ?  That  I  am  not  spirit, 
I  cannot  know,  but  by  some  feeling  of  what  spirit 
is  ;  and  by  my  having  that  feeling,  I  must  be  my- 
self somewhat  spiritual.  It  is  nobly  said  by  Jean 
Paul,  that  man  would  be  altogether  vanity,  and 
ashes,  and  smoke,  upon  earth,  only  that  he  feels 
as  though  he  were  so. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  well  said  by  him. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  And  so  we  will  conclude,  with  him, 
at  those  times  when  the  world  is  empty  and  noth- 
ing to  us,  that  —  O  God  !  this  feeling  is  our  im- 
mortality. 

MARHAM. 

Amen,  amen  ! 


EUTHANASY.  95 


CHAPTER  XL 


Awake,  my  soul !  pour  forth  thy  praise, 
To  that  great  Being  anthems  raise,  — 
That  wondrous  Architect  who  said, 
"  Be  formed,"  and  this  great  orb  was  made. 

Since  first  I  heard  the  blissful  sound,  — 
"  To  man  my  spfril'a  breath  is  given  "  ; 

I  knew,  with  thankfulness  profound, 
His  sons  we  are,  —  our  home  is  heaven.  —  Hafiz. 


MARHAM. 

O  Oliver  !  this  is  a  lovely  afternoon. 

AUBIN. 

It  is,  very.  Uncle,  this  is  May-day.  We  can- 
not welcome  the  month  along  with  the  boys  and 
girls,  with  their  garlands  of  flowers,  but  we  can 
along  with  Wordsworth,  in  a  verse  of  his. 

Flattered  with  promise  of  escape 

From  every  hurtful  blast, 
Spring  takes,  O  sprightly  May !  thy  shape, 

Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Uncle,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what  we  talked 
about  yesterday. 

MARHAM. 

And  what  have  you  thought  ? 

AUBIN. 

That  with  a  miild  not  diseased,  a  holy  life  is  a 


96  EUTHANASY. 

life  of  hope,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  death  is  a  great 
act  of  hope. 

MAKHAM. 

This  is  what  you  mean,  is  not  it, — that  the 
righteous  has  hope  in  his  death  ? 

AUBIN. 

Hope,  the  growth  of  his  life  ;  for  this  is  quite 
another  thing  from  the  merely  wishful  state  of 
mind  that  illness  may  well  cause.  I  will  tell  you 
what  I  mean,  from  my  experience.  When  I  am 
happiest,  my  spirit  turns  to  God  of  itself.  At 
the  gain  of  a  new  truth,  in  the  reading  of  some  few 
books,  at  the  sight  of  mountains,  in  two  or  three 
successful  instances  of  worldly  endeavour,  two  or 
three  times  in  hearing  of  good  actions,  and  some- 
times, uncle,  in  loving  you,  my  delight  has  been 
30  great,  that  speaking  it  to  God  has  been  a  re- 
lief to  me.  Then,  through  thanksgiving,  my  hap- 
piness has  grown  greater  still,  but  calmer,  and 
purified,  and  with  something  mysterious  blending 
in  it,  as  though  it  were  a  foretaste  of  other  higher 
blessedness.  I  wonder  why  this  was.  Perhaps 
it  was  in  this  way.  Through  faith,  the  hand  of 
God  is  seen  by  us  ;  and  so  every  gift  that  we 
have  from  it  reminds  us  of  the  infinite  stores  out 
of  which  it  was  given  us.  But  rather,  I  think, 
that  hope  in  happiness  is  an  instinctive  accom- 
paniment of  trust  in  God. 


EUTHANASY.  97 

MARHAM. 

Commonly  it  accompanies  it,  and  strongly, 
and  perhaps  always  ;  and  therefore,  perhaps  nat- 
urally. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  a  hope  in  God  that  is  merely  despair 
of  the  world,  but  there  is  a  hope  that  comes  of 
having  lived  wisely  ;  and  that  is  the  experience 
of  a  man  who  has  seen  on  the  tree  of  his  life,  as 
one  after  another  its  blossoms  opened,  how  there 
was  on  them  the  dew  of  God's  grace  ;  and  so 
when  the  tree  begins  to  be  bared  in  autumn,  early 
or  late,  he  does  not  fear  but  that  it  will  live  and 
be  beautiful  again,  in  that  great  spring-time  that 
will  be  followed  by  no  winter. 

MARHAM. 

We  will  be  grateful  to  God,  then,  Oliver,  more 
and  more  ;  and  so,  perhaps,  at  the  last,  be  quite 
trustful  in  him. 

AUBIN. 

That  is  what  I  have  been  wanting  to  say  ;  and 
it  is  what  I  think  to  myself,  often.  Morning  and 
evening,  in  prayer,  I  will  strive  to  feel  God,  and 
the  whole  day  through  I  will  be  glad  in  him,  and 
every  pleasure,  I  will  say  to  myself,  is  from  him. 
So,  through  faith,  I  will  see  the  hand  of  God 
above  me,  and  I  will  see  it  often,  and  get  used 
to  the  sight  of  it ;  so  that  when  it  shuts  upon  my 
7 


98  EUTHANASY. 

soul  to  withdraw  it  from  the  world,  I  shall  not  be 
afraid,  but  glad. 

MARHAM. 

Hope  it  for  me,  Oliver,  and  pray  for  it  for  me, 
as  well  as  yourself.  I  wish  I  may  not,  —  O,  ! 
wish  I  may  not  go  hence  in  fear  ! 

AUBIN. 

Fear,  uncle  !  No,  no  !  we  will  not  fear.  For 
have  not  you  been  happy  here,  very  happy,  very 
often  ?  And  for  a  good  man,  what  is  death  ?  It 
is  a  door  in  our  Father's  house,  out  of  one  cham- 
ber into  another  ;  and  to  fear  to  go  through  it 
would  not  only  be  doubt  of  what  is  beyond  it, 
but  would  argue  want  of  gratitude  for  what  happi- 
ness we  are  now  having,  which  is  a  thing  we  will 
not  be  guilty  of.  But,  O  !  our  heavenly  destiny  is 
prophesied  in  this,  that  thankfulness  for  what  we 
have  makes  us  more  trustful  of  what  we  may 
have.  We  count  up  our  pleasures  in  the  Divine 
presence  ;  and  then,  as  we  look  up  to  heaven,  it 
is  as  though  God  were  smiling  upon  us,  and  en- 
couraging us  to  think  that  our  earthly  joys  are 
only  the  beginning  of  delight. 

MARHAM. 

Several  times,  in  prayer,  I  have  had  such  mo- 
ments of  holy  confidence.  I  have  often  feared 
they  might  be  presumptuousness  ;  but  I  hope  your 
interpretation  of  what  they  mean  is  correct ;  and 
I  think  it  is. 


EUTHANASY.  '99 

AUBIN. 

O  uncle  !  all  our  better  moods  are  prophetic 
of  eternity  for  us.  Justice  feels  itself  rooted 
more  deeply  than  the  mountains  are  ;  it  is  of  the 
very  essence  of  love  to  be  consciously  everlast- 
ing ;  and  faith  feels  as  though  it  could  die  death 
after  death,  and  be  only  the  nigher  God  with 
every  change. 

MARHAM. 

And  God  would  never  let  these  holiest  affec- 
tions of  our  nature  be  false  witnesses  to  us  about 
our  destiny. 

AUBIN. 

O,  no  !  For  it*  is  by  the  prompting  of  God 
they  speak,  and  in  the  name  of  God  ;  and  they 
are  worthy  of  all  belief. 

MARHAM. 

And  we  will  believe  them  ;  we  will.  And  we 
will  thank  God  for  every  way  by  which  our  faith 
can  be  strengthened. 

AUBIN. 

After  achieving  a  hard  duty,  after  a  great  act 
of  resignation  or  of  forgiveness,  after  a  very  ear- 
nest prayer,  and  after  a  kind  action,  I  have  some- 
times had  a  strange,  mysterious  feeling,  as  though 
some  great  revelation  were  about  to  be  made  to 
me,  —  such  a  calm  in  the  soul,  as  though  God 
were  about  to  speak  in  it.  Draw  nigh  to  God 
and  he  will  draw  nigh  to  you  ;  —  this  is  corrobo- 


100  EUTHANASY. 

rated  highly  and  solemnly,  out  of  the  soul's  own 
experience.  There  are,  —  yes,  there  are  mo- 
ments permitted  us,  that  are  an  earnest  of  the 
certainty  and  the  way  in  which  our  souls  will  be 
drawn  into  heaven,  at  last. 


EUTHANASY.  101 


CHAPTER  XII. 

To  some  hath  God  his  word  addressed 

'Mid  symbols  of  his  ire, 
And  made  his  presence  manifest 

In  whirlwind,  storm,  and  fire ; 
Tracing  with  burning  lines  of  flame, 
On  trembling  hearts,  his  holy  name.  —  Anon. 

Now  for  my  life,  it  is  a  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to  relate  were  not 
a  history,  but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound  to  common  ears  like  a 
fable.  —  Thomas  Browne. 

AUBIN. 

My  birthday  I  make  a  thanksgiving  of  to  God, 
that  it  was  when  it  was  ;  and  so  I  do  of  my  birth- 
place, very  devoutly,  as  it  was  not  to  be  farther 
west  than  Europe. 

MARHAM. 

My  dear  Oliver,  do  not  thank  God  with  a  res- 
ervation. But  I  know  you  do  not  mean  it.  Be- 
sides, you  will  feel  as  though  you  had  been  born 
very  far  towards  the  west,  if  you  will  think  of 
yourself  as  a  native  of  what  St.  Clement  wrote 
of,  from  Rome,  as  the  worlds  beyond  the  ocean. 

AUBIN. 

Born  in  a  Christian  era,  and  among  Christians, 
nineteen  out  of  twenty  of  the  human  race  have 
not  been  ;  but  I  was.  And  as  I  was  not  to  be 
one  of  the  earliest  disciples,  nor  a  friend  of  St. 


c-^3    r     t  •  t 


c    r 


102  EUTHANASY. 

John's,  nor  a  convert  of  St.  Paul's,  I  am  glad 
that  I  was  born  when  I  was,  and  not  sooner. 
For,  with  my  nature,  it  would  have  been  ill  for 
me  to  have  been  born  within  the  unmitigated  in- 
fluence of  St.  Augustine,  of  Gregory  the  Great, 
or  of  John  Calvin.  There  are  scales  that  will 
weigh  to  the  five-hundredth  part  of  a  grain  ; 
but  for  use  they  require  the  very  temperature  of 
the  room  to  be  minded  in  which  they  are,  and 
in  any  wind  they  would  never  balance  at  all. 
Now,  I  think  that  in  the  religious  struggles  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  in  the  politics  of  the 
seventeenth,  my  judgment  might  perhaps  have 
been  false  to  me.  I  do  think,  that,  if  I  had  been 
born  twenty  years  earlier,  I  should,  as  a  spirit, 
have  grown  up  like  some  sea-side  trees,  that 
branch  out  and  blossom  only  on  one  side. 

MARHAM. 

Prejudice  blights  most  of  us. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  does.  And  instead  of  our  charities  blos- 
soming all  round  us,  they  do  so  only  towards  cer- 
tain quarters  ;  and  they  are  the  quarters  whence 
blow  the  breezes  that  flattered  us  in  our  opinions 
or  interests. 

MAKHAM. 

Perhaps  it  is  more  so  with  ourselves  than  we 
think  ;  we  will  hope  it  is  not,  and  we  will  endeav- 
our it  may  not  be  so  at  all. 


EUTHANASY.  103 

AUBIN. 

I  congratulate  myself  that  my  birth  was  when 
it  was  ;  for  I  might  have  been  born  in  Greece, 
and  yet  not  in  Athens  ;  in  Athens,  and  yet  not 
have  been  a  Christian  ;  in  the  first  century,  I 
might  have  been  born  a  Christian,  but  have  lived 
all  my  life  as  a  sand-digger,  at  Rome,  in  what 
are  now  called  the  Catacombs.  But  I  was  born 
into  a  richer  world  than  Milton  was,  or  than  Jere- 
my Taylor,  or  than  Newton  ;  for  I  was  born  into 
a  world  that  was  become  the  more  glorious  for 
their  having  felt,  and  thought,  and  spoken  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

You  knew  the  name  of  Jesus  early,  and  so  you 
knew,  as  a  boy,  pure  religion,  and  what  truth 
there  is  in  philosophy,  and  what  is  best  in  the  re- 
sults of  science.     But  this  you  know. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  and  I  thank  God  for  it.  And  next 
after  early  baptism  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  I 
thank  God  for  my  mother-tongue's  having  been 
English ;  for  by  this  I  was  made  heir  to  the  mind 
of  Shakspeare  ;  owner  of  a  key  to  the  treasure- 
house  of  Locke's  thought ;  one  acquainted  with 
Sir  Thomas  Browne's  worth  and  oddity  ;  free 
of  a  church-sitting  under  Isaac  Barrow ;  a  fishing 
companion  of  Isaac  Walton's  ;  and  one  to  difl^er 
from'  Bishop  Ken,  and  yet  to  love  him. 

MARHAM. 

No,  Oliver,  I  did  not  speak. 


104  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

The  house  of  my  birth  was  in  the  outskirts  of 
a  borough ;  and  the  front-door  opened  into  the 
town,  and  the  back-door  into  the  country.  This 
was  a  happy  thing  for  my  boyhood,  because  town 
life  made  me  think,  and  the  country  made  me 
feel.  The  town  was  like  an  atmosphere  of 
thought  when  I  went  into  it,  and  the  country, 
when  I  was  alone  in  it,  was  an  ever-changing  in- 
fluence upon  me,  —  like  a  presence  of  awe  one 
minute,  and  another  minute,  like  a  joy  melting 
into  tears  ;  and  then,  again,  it  was  as  though  my 
soul  felt  itself  whispered  by  the  breezes,  "  Come, 
let  us  away  into  the  heavens,  and  worship  to 
gether." 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  you  make  me  feel  that  I  have  many 
reasons  for  thanking  God  that  I  have  never  ac- 
knowledged yet. 

AUBIN. 

I  think  it  much  that  I  have  Hved  in  some  of 
the  riper  years  of  Wordsworth,  and  Thomas  Car- 
lyle,  and  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.  It  is  not  a  lit- 
tle to  have  learned  what  it  is  that  Orville  Dewey 
preaches.  It  is  something,  too,  that  I  have  been 
a  reader  of  Alfred  Tennyson,  and  that,  from 
over  the  Atlantic,  I  have  heard  Longfellow  sing 
his  ballads.  And  it  is  as  though  I  could  die, 
more  confident  of  not  being  forgotten  before  God, 


EUTHANASY.  105 

for  having  been  of  the  same  generation  with 
John  Foster,  and  Thomas  Arnold,  and  Henry 
Ware. 

MARHAM. 

How  do  you  mean  ? 

AUBIN. 

In  the  presence  of  a  good  man,  we  feel  the 
better  ;  and  the  better  our  mood  is,  the  nigher 
God  feels  to  us.  So  that,  in  thinking  over  the 
saints  who  have  been  of  our  generation,  and  half- 
known  to  us,  as  it  were,  we  ourselves  feel  the 
hoher,  in  our  capacities  at  least,  and  so  as  though 
God  were  more  surely  with  us. 

MARHAM. 

And  with  us  he  is  always,  from  birth  to  death  ; 
and  in  every  moment  of  our  lives,  as  much  as  in 
the  first.  Oliver,  you  look  much  better  than  you 
did.  I  wish  you,  and  now  1  begin  to  expect  for 
you,  many  happy  returns  of  this  day. 

AUBIN. 

Thank  you,  uncle.  But  there  are  many  days 
I  should  be  happier  to  see  return  than  this,  I 
think.  I  do  not  know  though.  But  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  mean.  The  birthday  of  the  soul  is 
greater  than  that  of  the  body.  And,  besides,  if  a 
birthday  is  reckoned  as  what  life  w^as  given  us  on, 
then  I  have  had  many  birthdays. 

MARHAM. 

How  have  you,  Oliver  ? 


106  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I  will  tell  you,  uncle.  One  October  afternoon 
a  person  was  drowning,  and  I  went  to  his  assist- 
ance. 

MARHAM. 

Was  he  saved  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  But  when  I  was  exhausted,  which 
I  was  very  soon,  I  was  caught  by  an  eddy  in  the 
river,  and  I  sunk. 

MARHAM. 

How  were  you  saved  ? 

AUBIN. 

The  river  was  very  rapid,  and  it  rolled  me  on 
to  a  sand-bank,  off  which  I  was  dragged  on  to 
the  grass.  When  I  was  drawn  in  under  the 
water,  T  struggled  hard,  but  I  could  not  rise.  1 
was  quite  aware  of  my  danger  ;  but  I  was  as  calm 
as  I  am  now.  I  believed  my  life  was  ending, 
and  I  thought,  ''  Well,  it  is  strange  that  I  should 
have  lived  all  these  years  of  education,  and  en- 
durance, and  hope,  only  to  be  drowned."  Then 
I  seemed  to  see,  at  a  glance,  all  my  life,  from 
my  earliest  consciousness  to  the  moment  when  I 
leaped  into  the  deep  water.  It  was  as  though 
there  were  a  presence  in  me  of  all  I  had  ever 
done,  or  said,  or  thought,  or  known.  I  remem- 
bered little  tilings  of  my  infancy,  and  I  saw  the 
meadows,  and  the  trees,  and  the  sky,  just  as  they 


EUTHANASY.  10? 

had  last  looked  to  me.  Then  I  could  not  lift  my 
hands  any  longer;  and  I  felt  as  though  sinking 
through  an  endless  depth  of  feathers.  I  thought, 
"  Now  this  is  death.  God  receive  my  spirit  !  " 
And  he  did,  for  I  became  insensible  ;  and  I  had 
no  care  of  it  myself,  but  God  gave  me  my  spirit 
back  again.  1  was  swept  on  to  die  sand-bank  ; 
my  body  was  seen  lying  there,  and  it  was  drawn 
out  of  the  water,  and  through  the  reeds,  into  the 
meadow.  And  now  I  feel,  that,  when  I  breathed 
again,  it  was  with  a  life  given  me  anew. 

MARHAM. 

My  brave,  good  Oliver  ! 

AUBIN. 

When  I  was  a  school-boy,  there  was  a  build- 
ing on  fire,  and  the  doors  of  it  could  not  be  open- 
ed. I  climbed  up  to  one  of  the  windows,  and 
broke  it,  and  got  in  through  it.  1  let  myself  drop 
on  to  the  floor,  and  groped  my  way  along  the 
wall  10  the  doors,  which  I  unbolted,  and  then  I 
fainted  ;  for  I  had  not  been  able  to  breathe,  for 
the  smoke.  And  just  then  the  flames  burst 
out. 

Oh! 


MARHAM. 


AUBIN. 

Many  other  narrow  escapes  of  my  life  I  have 
bad  ;  once  was  while  I  was  bathing,  and  another 
time  was  in  a  storm  at  sea. 


108  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Your  life  having  been  renewed  to  you  so  often 
and  so  strangely,  I  do  not  wonder  at  your  not 
feeling  the  beginning  of  it  as  so  very  special. 
And,  indeed,  when  we  think  of  what  sleep  is,  it 
is  as  though  every  morning  our  souls  have  what 
is  a  resurrection  out  of  more  than  oblivion. 

AUBIN. 

I  will  tell  you  another  strange  thing  that  hap- 
pened to  me.  I  had  done,  with  some  effort, 
and  not  without  earnest  prayers,  what  I  consider 
to  have  been  the  most  righteous  action  of  rtiy  life. 
But  by  it  I  had  alienated  the  only  two  or  three 
friends  I  had,  who  could  help  me  in  any  way. 
Besides  this,  I  had  intrusted  a  man  in  distress 
with  all  my  little  money,  as  a  loan  for  a  short 
lime,  and  he  had  died  suddenly,  without  leaving 
any  thing  for  my  repayment,  though,  if  he  had 
lived  a  few  days  longer,  I  should  certainly  have 
had  my  money.  I  had  worked  day  and  night  for 
a  week,  in  the  hope  of  being  a  few  shillings  the 
better.  But  my  labor  had  been  all  in  vain.  I 
was  penniless  ;  I  was  without  a  friend  to  speak 
to  ;  and  I  was  weak  in  mind,  from  grief,  and 
anxiety,  and  hard  work,  and  no  sleep.  My  self- 
control  vvas  failing  me  ;  and  I  was  going  away 
from  the  town  I  was  in,  with  I  cannot  tell  what 
other  notions,  but  certainly  with  the  feeling  that  I 
was  never  to  return  to  it  again,  when  a  man  laid 


EUTHANASY.  109 

his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  said,  —  "  I  want  to 
speak  with  you,  and  you  must  go  back  with  me 
to  your  lodgings,  for  I  have  come  fifteen  miles 
to  see  you.  But  how  ill  you  are  !  You  seem  as 
though  in  a  high  fever.  Would  your  surgeon 
tliink  it  right  you  should  be  out  of  doors  :  "  I 
answered,  that  I  should  be  well  soon  ;  for  I  could 
not  tell  him  that  I  was  too  poor  to  have  medical 
help.  The  man  wanted  to  consult  me  on  a  case 
of  conscience  ;  for  he  said,  that,  somehow,  he 
thought  he  could  trust  me.  While  talking  over 
his  affairs,  I  forgot  my  own  ;  and  by  using  argu- 
ments to  strengthen  his  will,  I  got  courage  my- 
self. When  he  left  me,  I  fell  asleep.  And  that 
night  I  slept  long  and  well,  which  I  had  not  done 
at  all  for  five  nights  before.  When  I  awoke  in 
the  morning,  I  was  quite  another  man  from  what 
I  was  the  day  before  ;  and  that  day,  there  opened 
to  me  the  prospect  of  getting  a  little  employ- 
ment. My  reason  was  failing  me,  and  would 
altogether  have  failed  me,  but  for  that  man's  hav- 
ing come  to  me.  What  was  it  brought  him  to 
me,  at  the  very  last  moment  he  could  have  found 
me  ;  for  in  another  minute  I  should  have  been 
out  of  the  town  ?  It  was  not  chance  ;  it  was 
Providence.  And  if  I  am  in  possession  of  my 
reason  now,  it  is  because  my  reason  was,  in  that 
time  of  need,  renewed  in  me,  and  made  mine,  as 
much  afresh  as  when  it  was  created  in  my  soul  at 
first. 


1 10  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

My  poor,  dear  Oliver  ! 

AUBIN. 

Once  I  did  what  was  against  the  will  of  every 
person*  I  was  connected  with,  and  nearly  all  of 
them  dlshked  me  for  it.  So  that  I  did  not  do  it 
easily,  as  you  may  suppose.  The  hardness  of 
my  struggle  was  great.  It  was  not  without  tears, 
and  an  agony  of  distress.  Very  painful  it  was. 
O  my  God,  what  I  felt  !  And  well  I  might 
feel ;  for  freedom  of  conscience  was  beginning  in 
me.  A  nobler  birthday  for  me  that  season  was, 
tlian  the  day  on  which  merely  my  lungs  got  free 
to  play. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  a  birth  that  not  many  of  us  ever  have, 
Ohver. 

AUBIN. 

When  a  man,  for  conscience'  sake,  does  what 
his  acquaintance  will  hate  him  for,  then  his  soul 
has  its  birth  ;  and  till  he  does  this,  or  is  ready 
to  do  it  when  wanted,  his  mind  is  not  a  soul. 
What  is  meant  by  our  having  been  born  on  such 
a  day  ?  That  that  day  we  began  to  draw  breatli 
for  ourselves,  and  to  live  in  and  through  our 
bodily  functions.  So,  for  a  long  while,  our 
minds  live  in  the  minds  of  others  about  us, 
only  feeling  w^hat  others  feel,  and  wrongly  per- 
haps, as  well  as  what  is  called  respectably.     It 


ET7THANASY.  Ill 

is  the  birthday  of  a  soul,  when  a  man  finds  him- 
self listening  to  conscience,  as  though  to  God 
calling  him,  when  he  follows  the  voice,  when  he 
goes  out  from  his  father's  house,  and  from  all  that 
is  dear  to  flesh  and  blood,  and  goes,  like  Abra- 
ham, not  knowing  whither. 

MARHAM. 

But  to  God,  and  nigher  to  God,  he  does  go 
certainly.  Ay,  at  such  a  time,  such  a  man's  soul 
is  born  anew  within  him.  And  the  angels,  as 
they  look  at  him  from  heaven,  see  that  he  is  be- 
come not  of  this  world. 

AUBIN. 

There  are,  then,  some  days  of  our  lives  that 
are  more  to  be  thought  of  than  our  birthdays. 
Our  birth  is  a  beginning  only  ;  and  it  is  a  com- 
mencement of  what  may  perhaps  prove  perdition. 
But  these  other  days  are  what  man  gets  to  be  an 
heir  of  heaven  in.  The  third  heaven  St.  Paul 
was  in  once.  One  beyond  another  the  heavens 
are,  and  differing  from  one  another  in  glory,  like 
stars.  And  in  this  world  there  are  those,  who,  as 
children,  were  such  as  there  is  a  kingdom  of 
heaven  for  ;  who,  as  youths,  lived  up  to  the  holy 
height  of  the  dwellers  in  the  second  heaven  ;  and 
who,  as  men,  have  days  in  which  they  are  born 
into  fitness  for  one  heaven  one  year,  and  for  a  still 
higher  heaven  the  next  year. 


112  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

God  give  us  such  days,  and  many  of  them  ! 
But  every  day  might  be  such,  if  we  wished  it  ; 
but  we  do  not  ;  we  are  not  morally  strong  enough 
to  wish  it.  The  day  on  which  one  man  is 
crowned,  another  man  has  to  stand  begging  in  the 
streets.  And  the  sun  shines  on  the  contrast,  and 
there  is  no  help  for  it  in  the  sunshine,  nor  in  the 
poor  man  himself.  But  it  is  otherwise  in  the 
world  that  is  shone  upon  by  the  sun  of  righteous- 
ness. For  in  that  world,  and  in  the  light  of  that 
sun,  any  man  may  make  himself  what  he  will,  — 
a  broth-er  of  St.  Paul's,  a  friend  of  Christ's,  a 
ruler  elected  to  be  over  many  things,  an  heir  of 
salvation,  and  a  son  of  God.  But  much  of  this 
grace  and  blessedness  we  do  not  receive,  because 
we  do  not  ask.  I  believe  this,  but  not  enough. 
Lord  !  help  my  unbelief.  O,  it  is  sad  to  think 
how  seldom  the  voice  of  God  is  listened  for, 
though  there  are  times  and  ways  in  vviiich  it  makes 
itself  heard  by  the  most  careless  !  When  the 
voices  of  pleasure  are  silenced  about  us,  then  we 
are  wretched,  and  we  cannot  help  hearkening  for 
what  comfort  God  may  speak  to  us.  And  through 
the  lips  of  a  friend's  dead  body  there  comes  to  us, 
out  of  the  unseen  world,  a  warning  we  cannot 
help  minding  for  a  time.  And  sometimes  we  are 
touched  so  strangely,  by  words  and  by  little  things 


EUTHANASY.  113 

which  happen  to  us,  that  we  cannot  but  confess 
God's  power  in  them. 

AUBIN. 

When  I  was  seven  years  old,  I  heard  a  hymn 
read  from  the  pulpit ;  and  there  was  one  verse  of 
it  that  thrilled  me  so,  that  I  could  fancy  myself 
hearing  it  being  read  now.  I  remember  it  to  this 
day,  though  I  have  never  heard  the  hymn,  nor 
seen  it,  since. 

Youth,  when  devoted  to  the  Lord, 

Is  pleasing  in  his  eyes ; 
A  flower,  when  offered  in  the  bud^ 

Is  no  vain  sacrifice. 

With  the  invitation  of  that  hymn,  it  was  as  though 
I  was  caught  up  into  a  heaven  of  resolution  and 
hope. 

MARHAM. 

And  that,  I  suppose,  was  one  of  the  earlier  of 
those  days  in  which  you  were  born  again.  Well, 
it  is  a  great  day  on  which  a  man  first  draws 
breath  ;  but  it  is  quite  as  great  a  day  for  him, 
perhaps,  on  which  he  first  draws  his  breath  in 
hope  or  in  fear. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  I  shall  never  forget  my  finding  a  ser- 
mon of  Channing's.  I  read  it,  unknowing  of  the 
author's  fame,  and  I  think  from  the  beginning  to 
the  end  without  once  looking  off  the  pages  And 
when  I  had  read  the  discourse,  I  said,  *'  The 
R 


114  EUTHANASY. 

Father  of  spirits  be  thanked  for  this  !  for  now  1 
can  understand  the  Gospel,  and  now  I  shall  be 
able  to  grow  in  grace."  This  was  on  one  of  the 
greater  days  of  my  life,  one  August  afternoon, 
when  I  was  a  youth. 

MARK  AM. 

Your  spiritual  experiences  interest  me  very 
much. 

AUBIN. 

The  other  day,  I  was  looking  over  some  notes 
of  my  writing  in  a  book,  during  a  time  of  great 
distress  with  me.  And  I  saw  what  I  wrote  one 
night  after  very  earnest  prayer,  and  perhaps  the 
most  effectual,  fervent  prayer  I  ever  prayed.  It 
is  to  me  a  record  now  of  the  beginning  of  a  new 
era  in  my  life,  as  a  soul,  a  suffering  soul,  and  a 
soul  to  be  perfected.  After  the  date  of  the  day 
of  the  month  and  the  year,  these  are  the  words  : 
—  "  This  night  have  I  seen  God  for  the  first 
time."  At  that  time  of  agony,  in  the  earnestness 
of  my  prayer,  I  felt  the  presence  of  God  with  me, 
almost  as  though  I  saw  it.  I  have  now  a  feehng 
of  what  I  felt  then. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  it  is  strange  how  the  feelings  of  some  days 
of  our  lives  do  last  on  in  us.  Yet  it  is  not  so 
strange,  either  ;  for  we  are  in  ourselves  what  those 
few  days  make  us. 


EUTHANASY.  115 

AUBIN. 

Once  I  was  not,  and  now  I  am.  This  is  a 
thing  to  think  of;  it  is  a  great,  great  thing.  Up 
and  down  Syria  the  patriarchs  wandered,  and 
in  their  tents  talked  with  their  wives,  in  the  val- 
leys pastured  their  cattle,  and  here  and  there 
built  altars,  for  sacrificing  on  to  God  ;  but  in  their 
way  of  life  there  was  no  part  for  me.  At  the 
building  of  the  Pyramids,  laborers  crowded,  and 
toiled,  and  shouted  ;  and  there  was  great  earnest- 
ness ;  but  there  was  no  feeling  of  it  for  me.  The 
hundred  gates  of  Thebes  were  opened  and  shut ; 
but  there  was  no  going  in  or  out  through  them 
for  me.  Thousands  of  millions  of  men  and 
women  were  born,  and  loved  one  another,  and 
died  ;  but  in  all  that  kindness,  there  was  no  share 
for  me.  Rome  grew,  and  grew  vast,  and  decay- 
ed ;  but  there  was  never  any  place  in  it  for  me. 
In  England,  Britons  dwelt  together ;  and  then 
Saxons  sat  round  blazing  hearths,  and  Norwe- 
gians and  Normans  had  houses,  in  which  they  en- 
joyed themselves  ;  and  age  after  age  men  talked 
with  one  another,  and  worked  together,  and  rest- 
ed together,  and  were  merry  and  sad  together  ; 
and  I  was  not  anywhere.  The  sun  shone  on  this 
very  spot,  and  it  was  cloudy  here,  and  it  rained, 
and  just  as  it  does  now  time  wore  on  ;  but  I  was 
not  in  it.  And  what  thousands  of  years  birds 
had  been  singing,  and  the  flowers  had  been  flow- 


116  EUTHANASY. 

ering,  and  rivers  had  been  flowing,  and  day  and 
night  had  been,  while  I  was  nowhere  !  Nowhere? 
Alive  I  was  not.  But  I  was  a  thought  in  the 
mind  of  God  ;  and  now  I  have  been  made,  and 
now  I  am  what  Providence  has  care  of.  But 
when  I  think  of  the  time,  the  eternity,  past  in 
which  I  was  not,  and  then  think  of  the  day  I  was 
born,  I  feel  fresh  from  the  hands  of  God  ;  I  feel 
as  Adam  may  have  done  when  he  got  up  from 
the  earth,  and  knew  himself  that  minute  made 
out  of  the  dust  of  it. 

MARHAM. 

Fearfully  and  wonderfully  we  are  made. 

AUBIN. 

Years,  hundreds  of  years,  thousands  of  years, 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  years,  for  infinite  ages, 
I  had  no  being,  though  God  was  meaning  I  should 
have  ;  then,  a  few  years  ago,  he  let  my  life  begin, 
in  his  gift  of  a  child  to  my  father  and  mother. 

MARHAM. 

O,  but  it  is  a  wonderful  life,  this  of  ours,  when 
we  do  think  what  it  is  !  Every  child  at  its  birth 
is  an  Elnathan,  a  gift  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  not  for  God  to  give  and  not  to  care. 
Sometimes  my  soul  is  in  darkness  and  mourns, 
and  it  is  as  though  God  were  far  from  me  ;  but  he 
never  is,  and  I  know  he  is  not.  For  God  is  not 
with  us  less  one  day  than  another,  though  there 


EUTHANASY.  1 17 

are  seasons  in  which  our  souls  can  feel  him  more. 
Yes,  1  know  that  what  God  has  been  to  me  at 
any  time,  he  is  always  ;  and  he  is  more  to  me 
than  what  I  know,  infinitely  more.  O,  there  are 
days  that  call  to  me  out  of  the  past,  and  one  asks 
solemnly,  "  Dost  thou  not  remember  having  been 
born  again,  and  was  not  that  change  God  with 
thee  .'' "  It  was  ;  and  what  I  am  now  is  because 
God  is  with  me.  And  another  asks,  "Wert 
thou  not  as  one  dead  once,  and  art  thou  not  alive 
again  ?  "  Yes,  and  my  soul's  going  out  of  the 
body  will  not  be  more  terrific  than  many  passages 
in  my  life  have  been.  The  day  of  my  death  will 
not  be  stranger  for  me  than  several  days  have 
been  that  I  have  lived  through,  through  God  ; 
and  so  for  which  I  have  come  to  know  God  the 
better  and  the  more  happily.  And  I  shall  die, 
but  only  to  know  the  more  blessedly  that  God  is 
the  Father  of  us  spirits. 


1 18  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet,  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 
Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 
And  lo !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  O  Sun !  or  who  could  find, 
Whilst  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect,  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ? 
Why  do  we,  then,  shun  death  with  anxious  strife? 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life? 

J.  BiJLNOo  Whitb. 

MARHAM. 

Persons  who  have  no  faith  themselves  cannot 
understand  in  what  way  those  who  have  it  are  the 
better  for  it. 

AUBIN. 

But  whether  we  know  it  or  not,  we  are  all  of 
us  mysteries  to  ourselves  and  to  one  another.  Id 
our  souls  there  is  what  is  connected  with  God, 
and  through  that  channel  what  may  come,  or 
how  we  may  be  quickened,  it  is  not  for  us  —  no, 
nor  for  the  angels  —  to  say. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  very  likely  that  hereafter  some  very  slight- 


EUTHANASY.  119 

est  help  or  change  may  be  enough  to  make  us  en- 
joy ourselves  a  thousand  times  more  than  we  have 
ever  done. 

AUBIN. 

There  are  landscapes  by  Paul  Potter  which  are 
a  delight  to  look  at.  But  the  Dutch  scenery  that 
he  painted  from,  and  painted  exactly,  is  ugly  and 
very  dull  ;  or  rather  I  should  say,  it  is  so  to  most 
persons  ;  but  to  Paul  Potter  it  was  not.  Now  I 
can  believe,  if  some  little  want  were  supphed  in 
my  spirit,  that  the  whole  earth  would  be  glorified 
to  me,  and  God  be  seen  throughout  it. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  God  be  all  in  all,  even  to  the  eye. 

AUBIN. 

You  remind  me  of  another  thing  which  I  have 
remarked.  A  man  has  looked  at  a  scene  some- 
where, and  thought  it  to  be  very  pretty  ;  but  when 
he  sees  it  as  a  landscape  in  some  great  master's 
painting,  he  feels  it  to  be  spiritual,  and  his  soul  is 
the  better  for  the  sight. 

MARHAM. 

Is  it  so,  Oliver  ?  Well,  how  do  you  account 
for  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

The  artist  is  an  interpreter  of  the  earth's  look, 
and  such  a  helper  we  most  of  us  need  ;  just  as 
the  heathen  cannot  understand  the  Gospel  without 
its    being   explained  to  their    minds.      However, 


120  EUTHANASY. 

the  more  godly  we  are,  the  more  we  shall  feel 
the  spirit  of  God  in  all  God's  works,  and  in  all 
his  workings  with  us.  The  lily  looked  to  Christ 
more,  and  something  diviner,  than  it  does  to  us, 
when  he  spoke  of  it  as  being  so  arrayed  in  glory 
by  God.  God  so  clothing  the  grass  of  the  field  ! 
—  there  is  a  way  of  thinking  of  that  which  ought 
to  clothe  our  souls  in  faith. 

MARHAM. 

Faith,  perfect  faith  !  That  is  the  garment 
which  in  the  wearing  would  make  life  be  like  a 
high  festival,  and  this  earth  like  the  house  of  the 
Lord,  and  our  thoughts  like  Christ  with  us. 

AUBIN. 

That  is  what  I  am  sure  of ;  and  from  my  being 
sure  of  it,  my  little  faith  serves  me  more  than  it 
otherwise  would.  Troubles  and  pleasures  and 
death  are  about  me.  And  they  are  about  me  like 
a  blessed  home.  Though  this  is  what  I  do  not 
see  ;  but  I  do  know  it.  So,  in  whatever  my  cir- 
cumstances are,  I  can  feel  at  home,  and  not  like 
a  prisoner  ;  just  as  in  this  house  I  am  sure  that  I 
am  at  home,  even  in  the  dark,  and  when  I  can 
only  feel  things  about  me  and  not  see  them. 

MARHAM. 

Whatever  our  darkness,  God  is  in  it ;  and 
through  faith  in  him,  if  we  have  not  light  at  once, 
we  have  peace. 


EUTHANASY.  181 

AUBIN. 

Death  comes  to  us  in  the  dark,  and  so  he  is 
dreadful  to  many  men  ;  but  to  the  saint  he  is  not. 
For  though  the  Christian  cannot  see,  yet  he  feels 
what  the  look  of  death  must  be  ;  and  rightly,  for 
m  the  light  of  heaven  death  looks  divinely,  and  is 
one  of  the  angels  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

I  have  been  thinking  that  the  fear  of  death  is 
from  thinking  too  much  of  one's  self.  At  the  last 
hour  we  will  look  up  to  God,  and  then  death  will 
come  upon  us  as  though  straight  from  God. 

AUBIN. 

God  is  in  the  world  and  in  all  things  more 
plainly  than  I  can  see  ;  but  I  can  trust  in  what 
Christ  saw.  O,  there  is  a  song  of  triumph  over 
our  human  nature,  which  day  unto  day  is  said 
about  the  earth,  and  which  night  unto  night  is 
chanted,  and  which  the  morning-stars  sing  to- 
gether in  for  joy  !  The  song  itself  I  cannot  hear, 
but  the  joy  of  it  I  can  beheve  in,  and  I  do,  and 
I  will.  So,  at  the  last,  I  will  feel  as  though  un- 
derneath me  the  earth  were  glad,  and  as  though 
the  heavens  were  bending  towards  me  from  above, 
and  as  though  there  were  joy  among  the  angels  at 
seeing  in  me  what  to  them  is  birth  immortal, 
though  we  mortals  call  it  death. 


122  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

The  tree 
Sucks  kindlier  nature  from  a  soil  enriched 
By  its  own  fallen  leaves ;  and  man  is  made 
In  heart  and  spirit  from  deciduous  hopes 
And  things  that  seem  to  perish.  —  Hknry  Taylor. 

AUBIN. 

You  draw  a  deep  breath,  and  fold  your  hands, 
and  drop  them  a  little,  and  sigh.  What  is  it  for, 
uncle  ? 

MARHAM. 

It  is  an  Eastern  proverb,  that  the  recollection 
of  youth  is  a  sigh. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  it  may  be  in  the  tent  of  a  misbeliever, 
and  not  without  reason,  with  a  man  whose  hands 
shake  so  that  he  cannot  hold  the  lance,  the  tip  of 
which  was  once  protection  for  him,  and  bread  for 
him,  and  glory,  and  gold,  and  the  leadership  of  a 
tribe.  But  your  Arabic  proverb  ought  to  be  an 
untruth  in  England. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  the  Gospel  saves  old  age  from  being 
gloomy  in  iiself;  but  there  are  past  pleasures 
that  are  a  sadness  to  think  of. 


EUTHANASY.  123 

AUBIN. 

Then  they  ought  not  to  be,  and  in  themselves 
they  are  not.  With  you,  uncle,  the  recollection 
of  youth  ought  to  be  quite  another  thing  than  a 
sigh. 

MARK AM.  ■ 

It  is  John  Wilson  who  says,  — 

How  wild  and  dim  this  life  appears  ! 

One  long,  deep,  heavy  sigh, 
When  o'er  our  eyes,  half  closed  in  tears, 
The  images  of  former  years 

Are  faintly  glittering  by. 

AUBIN. 

And  falsely,  if  they  make  a  Christian  sad.  Old 
men  get  from  one  another  the  habit  of  sighing 
over  what  is  gone.  What  John  Wilson  wrote 
about  a  buried  saint,  we  ought  to  say  about  youth 
when  it  is  dead  and  gone,  — 

The  body  in  the  grave  is  laid, 
Its  beauty  in  our  hearts. 

And  it  is  in  the  feeling  of  that  beauty,  that  old 
men  ought  the  more  to  hope  for  immortality.  I 
say,  uncle,  that  remembered  joys  are  abiding 
joys  ;  for  I  am  a  Christian.  But  if  I  had  no 
hope  of  heaven,  then  my  memory  would  be  like 
a  charnel-house,  and  would  be  what  I  should  not 
like  to  look  into  ;  for  then,  in  its  chambers,  all 
recollections  of  youth  and  happiness  would  be 
painful  ;    for  they  would  be    forms  of  perished 


124  EUTHANASY. 

pleasures  ;  and  to  think  of  them  would  be  like 
opening  a  friend's  coffin,  only  to  see  the  body  rot. 
But  to  Christian  feeling,  the  remembrance  of  early 
delight  is  like  some  foretaste  which  has  been  had 
of  the  blessedness  of  heaven. 

MARHAM. 

With  me,  Oliver,  the  long,  long  past  was  so 
happy  ! 

AUBIN. 

And  is  become  so  poetical.  To  your  mind 
now,  the  rod  is  what  might  have  blossomed  in 
the  nursery  any  morning  ;  and  a  whipping  at 
school  is  to  you  now  as  though  it  had  been  an 
emphasis  of  delight,  which  I  do  not  think  it  ever 
was.  What  you  are,  you  feel  yourself  to  be  ; 
but  what  you  think  you  once  were,  that  you  never 
were.  You  should  be  thankful,  uncle,  that  the 
past  does  become  poetical ;  but  you  should  not 
therefore  let  the  present  feel  melancholy.  In  the 
sunset  of  life,  the  path  behind  looks  the  more 
golden,  the  farther  off  it  is  ;  but  it  only  looks  so, 
for  it  is  not  so  really.  Besides,  uncle,  there 
might  be  eyes  in  which  your  early  would  seem 
less  happy  than  your  present  life.  It  is  only  to 
me  that  what  befell  me  in  my  boyhood  is  so 
glorious. 

MARHAM. 

True! 


EUTHANASY.  125 

AUBIN. 

What  troubles  we  have,  we  feel ;  but  what  are 
over,  we  do  not  even  remember.  For  nearly 
every  misfortune  is  like  Janus,  and  has  two  faces  ; 
the  one  with  which  it  comes  is  terrific  to  look  at, 
but  the  face  with  which  it  passes  away  is  that  of 
an  angel  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

Ohver,  more  than  once,  at  a  sudden  appear 
ance  in  my  house,  I  have  been  frightened,  and 
hid  my  face,  and  prayed  God  to  hide  the  evil 
from  me.  And  more  and  more  dreadful  it  seemed 
to  grow.  But  when  I  prayed  for  strength  to 
bear  the  look  of  the  calamity,  then  it  became 
bearable,  and  slowly  it  grew  bright  ;  and  at  its 
vanishing  there  was  a  glory  left  behind.  And  so 
what  I  prayed  against  at  first,  proved  at  last  to 
have  been  an  angel  with  me,  entertained  una- 
wares. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  what  terror  you  felt,  you  do  not  feel 
now  ;  but  the  joy  thrills  on  in  you  still.  Of  all 
life  past,  there  was  no  one  happy  day  the  sun- 
shine of  which  does  not  brighten  us  now,  when 
we  look  back  ;  but  the  clouds  of  the  gloomy 
times  are  vanished  as  though  they  had  never  been. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  it  is  so. 


126  EUTHANASl. 

AUBIN. 

Pleasures  are  pleasures  for  ever.  You,  uncle, 
are  happy  in  the  happiness  of  the  past,  in  all  that 
you  remember  of  it,  in  the  holidays,  and  sports, 
and  adventures  of  your  childhood,  in  the  suc- 
cesses of  your  youth,  in  many  a  night's  and  mid- 
night's conversation  with  learned  men  and  dear 
friends,  and  in  those  watchful  hours,  when,  from 
the  firmament  of  thought,  the  greater  lights  first 
reached  you  with  their  glorious  rays.  Your 
times  of  delight  are  a  delight  to  remember  ;  but 
your  seasons  of  suffering  are  no  pain  to  recollect. 
That  they  existed,  you  know  ;  but  what  they 
were,  you  cannot  at  all  feel.  Anxious  nights, 
bitter  disappointments,  great  sufferings,  you  have 
had  ;  but  of  very  few  of  them  is  there  any  of  the 
painfulness  in  you  now. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  what  argues  the  goodness  of  God  very 
strongly,  —  that  our  pleasures  are  lived  by  us 
over  and  over  again,  but  not  our  pains,  or  at  most, 
not  many  of  them. 

AUBIN. 

None  of  what  I  have  been  speaking  of,  for  I 
have  been  meaning  such  troubles  as  are  over. 

MARHAM. 

Our  friends  we  grieve  for  many  days  and  years 
after  the  day  of  their  loss. 


EUTHANASTf.  127 

AUBIN. 

That  is  because  they  are  not  a  past,  but  a  con- 
tinual loss,  for  a  long  while.  But  of  your  friends 
who  died  many  years  ago,  the  very  burials  are 
not  sorrowful  memories  now. 

MARHAM. 

Very  dreadful  life  would  be,  if  grief  for  the 
departed  never  wore  out ;  but  it  does,  and  so  as 
to  leave  no  feeling  of  what  it  was.  Or  rather, 
I  think,  our  departed  friends  become  to  us  what 
we  cannot  weep  for.  And  the  longer  we  have 
been  weeping,  the  more  peacefully  at  last  we 
give  over  ;  for  those  whom  we  mourn  the  most 
are  they  who  become  to  us  the  most  saintly  to 
think  of. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  they  do.  I  had  a  dear  friend  waste  away 
m  my  sight,  week  by  week,  and  die.  The  agony 
of  this,  I  know,  was  great ;  but  I  have  no  feel- 
ing of  what  it  was,  now.  From  me,  at  the  time, 
he  seemed  to  disappear  in  darkness.  But  my 
eyes  were  blinded  with  tears  ;  and  they  were  the 
darkness  ;  for  now,  as  I  look  back,  it  seems  to 
me  as  though  he  had  vanished  like  an  angel  of 
light,  and  as  though  he  had  left  a  track  of  glory 
along  the  years  during  which  I  knew  him. 

MARHAM. 

So,  then,  you  will  have  me  think  that  it  is  my 
remembrances  of  youth  which  have  been  bright- 


128  EUTHANASY. 

ening,  and  not  my  latter  years  which  have  been 
darkening  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes  ;  and  I  think  this,  too.  In  your  mind 
there  have  sprung  up,  from  time  to  time,  thoughts, 
of  which  you  reaped  the  harvest  in  joy,  but  the 
seeds  of  which  were  sown  in  you  in  tears. 
These  thoughts  you  remember,  and  the  joy  with 
which  you  had  them  first.  But  you  have  no  re- 
membrance of  how  they  first  began  to  grow  in 
you,  in  what  was  a  time  to  weep. 

MARHAM. 

No,  no  !  We  have  not  the  same  remembrance 
of  pain  as  of  pleasure. 

AUBIN. 

The  recollection  of  pleasure  is  itself  pleasure  , 
but  the  recollection  of  pain  is  not  pain.  And  if 
the  suffering  be  quite  over,  the  memory  of  it  is 
more  than  agreeable  ;  it  is  blessed.  For,  to  a 
Christian,  the  after-taste  of  the  cup  of  sorrow  is 
like  a  draught  from  the  river  of  water  of  life. 
But  indeed,  excepting  of  sin,  all  recollections  are 
more  or  less  pleasant ;  some  like  a  thrill  of  the 
nerves,  and  some  like  the  reading  of  poetry  ;  while 
others  make  mournful  music  in  us,  and  others, 
again,  are  like  the  holy  fervor  of  a  thanksgiving. 

MARHAM. 

The  past,  then,  may  sadden  us,  and  what  one 
now  is  may  sigh  for  what  one  once  was  ;  for  you 


EUTHANASY.  *  129 

say  that  there  are  recollections  that  may  make  a 
mourning  in  us. 

AUBIN. 

Mournful  music  in  us,  uncle.  And  there  are 
masses  for  the  dead,  which,  to  listen  to,  are  full  of 
the  spirit  of  immortality  ;  and  so  ought  all  an  old 
man's  memories  to  be.  My  life  1  would  not 
live  over  again  ;  would  you  yours  ?  Why,  then, 
should  you  sorrow  for  what  you  would  not  wish 
to  have  ? 

MARK  AM. 

Few  and  evil  are  the  days  of  the  years  of  our 
lives,  say  the  Scriptures. 

AUBIN. 

The  Scriptures  say  it  ?  No,  they  do  not. 
They  only  say  that  Jacob  said  it.  And  when 
he  did  say  it,  he  did  not  mean  that  life  was  evil 
with  him,  when  seven  years  of  service  seemed 
only  like  a  week,  for  the  love  he  had  to  Rachel. 

MARHAM. 

When  he  said  that  his  days  had  been  evil,  I 
suppose  he  meant  that  life,  as  a  whole,  felt  so  to 
his  aged  feelings. 

AUBIN. 

About  life,  my  dear  uncle,  whatever  Jacob 
may  have  said  and  felt,  you  ought  not  to  feel  and 
say  the  same  ;  for  though  of  the  same  flesh  as 
the  patriarch,  you  are  not  of  the  same  spirit  ;  for 
every  man,  in  Christ,  is  a  new  creature. 
9 


130  •  EUTHANASY- 

MARHAM* 

You  are  right,  Oliver.  And  I  was  wrong  in 
using  as  my  own  Jacob's  last  words  about  life. 
And  so  you  say,  I  think,  there  is  a  fashion  of 
speaking  mournfully  about  old  age  ;  and  of  speak- 
ing comes  feeling. 

AUBIN. 

Good  and  evil  are  the  lot  of  old  age,  and  so 
they  are  of  youth.  Does  it  seem  now  as  though 
youth  had  been  all  good  ?  Is  not  it,  then,  in 
some  things  because  early  life  has  resulted  in 
abiding  good  ?  And,  perhaps,  behind  you  many 
of  the  points  that  catch  the  light  of  heaven  most 
blessedly  are  what  were  once  shuddered  at  as 
mountains  of  hardship  to  cross. 

MARHAM. 

No,  no  !  When  one  thinks  of  it,  it  cannot 
have  been.  And  early  life  never  was  what  it 
now  looks. 

AUBIN. 

Pardon  me,  uncle,  but  I  think  it  was. 

MARHAM. 

You  do  !    Then  I  have  not  understood  you. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  you  have,  I  think.  What  I  said, 
or  more  certainly,  what  I  meant,  was  this.  Youth 
was  what  it  looks  to  have  been  ;  but  in  the  spend- 
ing, it  never  felt  what  you  fancy  it  did.  Ay, 
youth  would  be  something,  and  a  something  not 


EUTHANASY.  131 

of  this  earth,  if  it  were  what  it  feels  to  you.  But 
that  would  be  for  a  boy  to  have  at  ten  years  of 
age  the  mind  that  grows  in  a  man  only  at  seventy. 
To  all  men,  youth  would  be  a  litde  more  nearly 
what  it  looks,  if  there  were  more  faith  in  them 
while  it  is  passing.  And  there  is  a  greatness  of 
faith,  in  which  it  would  be  possible  for  a  man  to 
wear  his  old  age  like  a  vesture,  which  unem- 
bodied  spirits  might,  some  of  them,  envy. 

MARK AM. 

Lord  !  increase  our  faith.  St.  Augustine  said, 
that  he  would  not  change  places  with  any  angel, 
if  only  he  could  attain  the  station  assigned  to 
man. 

AUBIN. 

()  that  station !  And  yet  when  we  have 
reached  it,  and  when  we  are  ensphered  within  it, 
everlastingly,  this  very  day  will  be  a  fond  mem- 
ory with  us.  For  it  will  be  a  pleasure,  in  the 
city  of  God,  to  think  how  we  used  to  die  daily 
in  the  earth.  These  are  our  latter  days,  and  the 
ends  of  the  world  are  upon  us  now  ;  but  in  heaven 
any  recollection  of  our  present  feelings  will  be  a 
zest  to  our  immortality,  and  what  will  make  us 
look  up  to  God  and  thank  him. 

MARHAM. 

And  for  me,  this  may  be  before  the  year  ends 
its  round. 


0 
132  EXTTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  more  likely  to  be  for  me,  uncle  ;  that  is,  if 
I  am  worthy  of  heaven  on  my  dying.  And  for  us 
both  it  will  be  before  Saturn  finishes  one  circuit 
more.  And  then  we  shall  be  untouched  by  what  is 
planetary,  —  by  heat  and  cold,  and  the  changes  of 
day  and  night.  And  the  light  of  the  sun  and  moon 
will  be  nothing  to  us  when  we  are  citizens  of  the 
New  Jerusalem  ;  and  on  our  becoming  immortal, 
days  and  years,  the  shadow  that  moves  on  the 
face  of  the  dial,  the  hammer  that  strikes  the  hour, 
and  the  marvellous  clock-work  of  the  stars  them- 
selves, all  will  be  nothing  to  us. 

MARHAM. 

And  then  the  last  enemy  will  be  nothing  to  us  ; 
for  death  we  shall  have  undergone,  and  found  to 
be  birth.  O  God  !  may  our  certainty  of  what 
death  will  prove  to  be  strengthen  us  against  what 
it  seems  to  be. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  ought  to  do  so.  For  in  itself  life  was 
better  than  what  it  felt  in  our  passing  through.  In 
your  youth,  uncle,  no  doubt  you  were  troubled 
about  many  things,  and  you  took  more  thought 
about  the  morrow  than  was  right,  and  you  were  as 
anxious  as  though  of  your  Hfe  you  had  the  whole 
guidance,  and  God  had  none  ;  and  so,  through 
littleness  of  faith,  the  eyes  of  your  understanding 
were  withholden,  so  that  you  could  not  see  things 


EUTHANASY.  133 

about  you  as  they  might  have  been  seen,  and 
as  they  look  now  that  you  have  passed  through 
them. 

MARHAM. 

Now  I  see  them  beautiful  with  the  light  of  God 
about  them  ;  but  that  light  1  had  little  feeling  for 
once.  Ay,  and  1  must  remember  that  in  these 
old  days  of  mine  the  light  of  God  is  on  all  things 
round  me,  as  much  as  it  ever  was.  Faith,  more 
faith,  is  my  great  want.  The  Lord  is  my  sal- 
vation ;  why  or  what  should  T  fear  ? 

AUBIN. 

I  will  think  of  the  past,  and  so  be  brave  for 
time  to  come.  Adversities  laid  hold  of  me,  but 
I  said.  Whom  the  Lord  loveth  he  chasteneth  ; 
and  so  they  became  angels  with  me  unawares. 
And  moving  in  remembered  scenes,  what  are 
those  forms  I  see  so  beautiful  and  smiling,  and 
w^ith  the  light  of  heaven  shining  from  them  ? 
They  are  friends,  who,  the  last  time  I  saw  them, 
were  bodies  wasted  and  convulsed  ;  rather,  so 
they  seemed  to  me  to  be  ;  but  now  they  are  to 
me  what  in  their  agonies  they  were  just  becom- 
ing, —  they  are  saints  of  heaven.  Sufferers  they 
were,  and  now  they  are  saints  ;  and  so  I  think  of 
them,  though  at  first  after  losing  them  my  thoughts 
of  them  were  as  painful  as  their  last  days  were. 
It  is  not  the  past  has  changed,  but  myself;  for  I 
judge  of  it  more  wisely  now  than  I  did. 


134  EUTHANAST. 

MARHAM. 

Even  while  passing,  life  was  more  beautiful  than 
we  know  of ;  and  so,  in  comings  death,  without 
doubt,  is  diviner  than  we  feel. 

AUBIN. 

Week  by  week  I  am  nearer  the  end  of  my  life, 
and  time  pushes  me  on  towards  death,  out  of  one 
day  into  another.  But  after  prayer  in  an  evening, 
I  have  a  thought  that  comes  into  my  mind  with  a 
feeling  as  though  it  were  sent  ;  and  it  calms  me 
with  a  peace  not  of  this  world,  and  it  says  to  me, 
"•It  is  through  night  that  the  day  begins  anew,  and 
it  is  through  death  that  life  will  be  thine  afresh." 
Misfortunes  seem  to  call  to  me  from  places  where 
I  met  them,  "  Evils  we  were  at  the  first  look,  but 
in  thine  eye  of  faith  we  changed  into  ministers  of 
God  ;  and  so  vvill  death."  And  there  are  solemn 
seasons,  in  which,  from  heaven,  holy  and  departed 
friends  make  their  witness  felt  within  me,  "Our 
last  agonies  did  but  make  us  immortal  ;  for  death 
is  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's." 


EUTHANASY.  135 


CHAPTER  XV, 


Now  this  is  why,  in  my  old  age, 

No  sorrow  clouds  my  brow, 
No  grief  comes  near  me,  and  no  cares 

Disturb  me  here  below. 
Serenity  broods  o'er  my  mind, 

For  I  daily  pray  to  Heaven, 
That  when  the  hour  of  death  arrives 

My  sins  may  be  forgiven. 
No  anxious  fears  disturb  my  breast, 

My  days  serenely  roll ; 
I  tarry  till  it  pleaseth  God 

To  heaven  to  take  my  soul.  — Jean  Michel. 


AUBIN. 

There  are  some  who  grow  to  be  men,  and 
almost  old,  without  the  knowledge  of  suffering. 
And  their  thanks  to  God  are  for  their  many- 
pleasures  ;  and  for  their  sorrows,  when  they  come 
to  thank  him,  they  are  not  the  men  they  were. 
For,  in  the  mean  while,  they  have  eaten  of  the 
tree  of  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  found 
Eden  vanish  from  about  them,  and  the  world  feel 
like  thorns,  and  thistles,  and  dust,  and  a  curse. 
And  there  are  some  who  do  not  get  the  better  of 
this  sense  of  desolation  ;  for  they  are  angered  by 
it,  and  not  humbled.  But  those  who,  having  lost 
the  feeling  of  Eden,  get  that  of  earth's  being 
Gethsemane,  soon  find  life  rise  heavenwards  under 


136  EUTHANASY. 

them,  like  a  Mount  of  Olives  ;  and  when  they 
look  up  on  high  in  the  thought  of  Christ's  ascen- 
sion, heavenly  longings  rise  within  them  ;  and 
their  souls  clouds  cannot  darken  any  longer,  and 
what  is  commonly  the  darkest  of  all  is  to  them  a 
cloud  of  glory,  for  it  is  what  will  receive  their 
souls  out  of  earthly  sight. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  sometimes  a  man  may  be  thirty  or  fort^ 
years  old  before  his  first  grief;  and  when  it  does 
come,  what  a  change  it  makes  in  the  tone  of  his 
mind  ! 

AUBIN. 

A  great  change,  if  the  sufferer  proves  to  be  a 
saint ;  and  a  great  one,  too,  if  the  sufferer  becomes 
a  rejirobi^te  concerning  the  faith.  For  ajffllction 
separates*  men  to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  like 
Christ  from  the  throne  of  his  glory.  For  I  have 
known  some  who  seemed  to  worship  God  zeal- 
ously ;  but  it  was  not  the  true  God,  but  the  God  of 
their  good  fortunes.  What  they  worshipped  in 
was  founded  upon  the  sands  of  pleasure  ;  and  so, 
when  the  floods  of  misfortune  came,  their  temple 
fell  ;  and  then  they  said  there  is  no  God. 

MARHAM. 

Instead  of  saying,  as  they  ought  to  have  said, 
"  Mine  was  an  idol,  and  God  Almighty  pardon 
me  the  wrong  worship.*'  Ever  more  and  more 
do    I    myself  thank   God,  —  God  !   I    do    thank 


EUTHANASY.  137 

thee  for  what  troubles  I  have  had  ;  they  were 
touchstones  of  my  faith,  and  now  they  help  to  as- 
sure me  of  heaven.  And  yet,  —  O  God!  in 
merciful  affliction  let  thy  will  be  done  upon  me,  if 
unknowingly  I  am  serving  thee  for  wages  and  not 
for  love.  Oliver,  I  have  been  thinking  of  what 
we  talked  about  two  or  three  days  ago.  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  old  age  is  meant  to  be  a  further 
and  a  last  chance  for  those  who  have  not  been 
made  wise  before. 

AUBIN. 

There  are  those  whose  minds  are  so  small,  that 
this  world  is  enough  for  them,  as  it  would  seem. 
To  a  man  of  this  character  who  is  a  tradesman, 
the  earth  was  made  for  his  shop  to  stand  on,  and 
to  be  a  street  for  his  customers  to  come  up  ;  and 
to  him  life  is  a  long  market-day,  and  the  safety  of 
a  bank  is  in  the  place  of  Providence  ;  and  his 
sorrow  for  a  bad  bargain  is  an  anxiety  greater 
than  ought  to  be  felt  for  any  thing  else  but  sin. 
And  sinful  his  state  of  mind  is  become,  for  it  is 
without  God.  And  now  memory,  calculation, 
activity,  fail  him  ;  and  so  his  love  of  trading  fails. 
And  now  he  says,  *'  T  thought  existence  had 
been  a  mart  for  trading  on,  but  it  is  not,  though 
it  is  only  so  I  have  used  it.  Lord,  have  mercy 
on  me  !  " 

MARHAM. 

Better  late  than  never,  infinitely  better.      But 


138  EUTHANASY. 

it  is  sad  to  see  a  man  begin  to  serve  God  only 
because  he  cannot  serve  Mammon  any  longer. 
That  is  more  melancholy  than  seeing  a  man's 
faculties  fail.  Though  the  decay  of  the  mind  is 
very  distressing  to  witness.  To  know  that  very 
probably  your  own  or  some  friend's  mind  will  be 
enfeebled  by  old  age 

AUBIN. 

Mind,  mind  enfeebled  !  Body  you  mean,  dear 
uncle.  Mend  the  decaying  body,  and  the  mind 
would  show  itself  again.  It  is  not  the  soul,  but 
only  the  manifestation  of  it,  that  fails  with  the 
brain.  My  hands  are  palsied,  and  I  cannot  use 
them  ;  but  my  mind  is  as  lively  as  ever.  My 
brain  is  torpid,  and  is  useless  for  thinking  ;  but 
my  soul  may  be  the  same  as  ever.  An  aged 
relative  of  mine  had  been  childish  for  many  years, 
and  knew  none  of  her  family.  But  for  an  hour 
or  two  before  she  died,  she  was  herself  again. 
And  she  knew  all  her  friends,  and  asked  after  her 
absent  children.  And  through  her  watery  eyes 
and  blank  expression,  her  soul  looked  out  on  the 
world  again  as  loving,  and  knowing,  and  peaceful 
as  ever.     That  I  myself  saw. 

MARHAM. 

In  her  body,  some  change  against  death  had 
excited  her  brain  a  little,  I  suppose. 

ATJBIN. 

And  made  what  was  not  brain  be  brain,  and 
what  her  soul  could  make  itself  felt  in. 


EUTHANASY.  139 

MARHAM. 

For  years  she  had  been  imbecile,  do  you  say  t 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  Of  the  day  of  her  life  the  latter 
part  was  as  dark  as  night  ;  but  it  was  with  fog  and 
clouds,  not  with  an  extinguished  sun.  For  in  the 
evening,  the  sun  of  her  reason  was  seen  again, 
and  seen  to  have  been  always  shining  in  itself, 
though  not  into  the  world. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  why,  —  what  can  be  the  reason,  —  this, 
of  the  soul's  being  allowed  to  be  so  eclipsed  ? 

AUBIN. 

There  are  many  good  reasons  for  it,  I  have  no 
doubt 

MARHAM. 

Dear  Oliver,  I  do  not 


AUBIN. 

It  is  a  great  thing  for  us  to  be  made  sure  some- 
times, that,  though  the  soul  is  darkened,  it  is  not 
put  out.  And  if  we  see  for  ourselves  that  the 
soul  can  be  eclipsed,  and  yet  shine  on  again,  then 
we  can  so  easily  trust  how  the  shadow  of  death  will 
pass  over  it,  if  righteous,  only  to  leave  it  shining 
forth  as  the  sun  in  the  kingdom  of  our  Father. 

MARHAM. 

Thank  you,  Oliver.  But  I  was  going  to  say, 
that  I  had  asked  just  now  what  I  should  not ; 
perhaps  it  was  more  my  feeling  which  was  wrong, 


140  EUTHANASY. 

than  what  I  said.  For  it  is  better  to  trust  in  the 
goodness  of  what  God  does  with  us,  than  for  us 
to  be  anxious  about  what  his  purpose  is.  Yet, 
Oliver,  do  you  know  it  sometimes  feels  as  though 
it  would  be  a  relief  to  me  to  know  what  certainly 
are  the  uses  of  old  age  which  God  intends  .'' 

AUBIN. 

In  regard  to  old  age,  1  think  what  you  have 
been  saying.  I  think  that  there  is  a  purpose  in 
it,  and  a  privilege  higher  than  our  thoughts,  and 
above  what  we  could  have  understood  from  the 
Son  of  God,  if  he  had  spoken  about  it. 

MARK AM. 

Age  makes  leisure  for  reflection,  whether  we 
wish  it  or  not. 

AUBIN. 

The  years  of  old  age  are  stalls  in  the  cathedral 
of  life  in  which  for  aged  men  to  sit,  and  listen, 
and  meditate,  and  be  patient  till  the  service  is 
over,  and  in  which  they  may  get  themselves  ready 
to  say  Amen  at  the  last,  with  all  their  hearts,  and 
souls,  and  strength. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  to  depart  in  peace.  Old  age  has  been 
called  a  disease  of  the  body,  and  perhaps  it  is  ; 
but  very  certainly  it  ought  to  be  consecration  of 
the  soul.  Oliver,  you  are  looking  for  something. 
What  is  it  you  want  ? 


EUTHANASY.  141 

AUBIN. 

O,  I  can  do  without  the  book.  1  will  tell  you 
a  saying  of  Martin  Luther's.  He  said,  that  God 
assembles  to  himself  a  Christian  church  out  of  little 
children  ;  for  that  when  a  httle  child  dies,  of  one 
year  old,  that  always  one  —  yes,  two  —  thousand 
die  with  it,  of  that  age  or  younger  ;  but  that  when 
he  himself,  who  was  sixty-three,  should  die,  there 
would  not  be  a  hundred  of  his  age  die  with  him  ; 
and  that  he  believed  that  old  people  live  so  long 
in  order  that  they  may  see  the  tail  of  the  Devil, 
and  be  witnesses  that  he  is  such  a  wicked  spirit. 

MARHAM. 

I  would  sooner  believe  that  men  live  to  be  old 
so  as  to  know  for  themselves  the  truth  of  the  text, 
that  even  to  our  old  age  God  is  the  same,  and  that 
even  to  hoar  hairs  he  will  carry  us. 

AUBIN. 

Age  does  for  the  whole  character  what  can  be 
done  for  it  in  youth  only  by  one  adversity  on  one 
side,  and  by  another  on  another.  Even  with  the 
best  man,  rule  is  apt  to  run  to  self-will,  and  high 
health  to  self-reliance,  and  knowledge  to  pride, 
and  unblemished  morals  to  self-satisfaction.  But 
when  the  man  grows  old,  he  finds  age  to  be  a  cor- 
rective of  all  this.  His  sight  and  hearing  fail,  and 
so  he  has  to  rely  on  the  eyes  and  ears  of  persons 
about  him.  His  memory  fails,  and  so  he  has  to 
depend  on  other  men's  recollections.      His  body 


142  EUTHANASY. 

teans,  — ay,  and  so  would  his  soul,  and  be  bowed 
quite  down,  only  that,  as  he  grows  weaker,  he 
feels  more  and  more  a  divine  arm  about  him  up- 
holding him.  And  upon  that  arm  he  leans,  and 
the  more  lovingly  the  longer  he  hves. 

MARHAM. 

There  is  good,  Oliver,  there  is  great  good,  in 
old  age  ;  more  and  more  I  hope  to  know  of  it  for 
myself. 

AUBIN. 

The  ancients  might  call  old  age  sad,  but  that  is 
what  we  Christians  ought  not  to  do.  And  if  about 
any  old  man  there  are  things  that  might  sadden 
nim  a  little,  let  him  be  a  Christian,  and  his  melan- 
choly will  be  changed  into  what  will  be  like  a  gen- 
tle prayer,  always  rising  from  within  his  soul.  In 
q  sermon  which  I  once  wrote 

MARHAM. 

A  sermon,  you  said  } 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle  ;  I  thought  once  of  writing  and  pub- 
lishing some  ten  or  twelve  sermons  on  the  relig- 
iousness of  daily  life,  but  I  only  wrote  one. 

MARHAM. 

I  should  like  to  see  it,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

You  shall  have  it,  uncle,  this  evening. 


EUTHANASY.  14*'^ 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  perish.— Pnov.  xxix.  18. 

This  text  was  a  proverb  once,  and  its  meaning 
was  accurately  known  a  hundred  generations  ago  ; 
but  now  it  is  not,  and  it  never  will  be  known  quite 
exactly  ;  for  this  proverb  is  a  something  of  the 
spirit,  and  the  world  of  spirit  is  not  to  be  scruti- 
nized like  that  of  matter. 

From  a  few  marks  studied  upon  limestone, 
from  a  few  rocky  appearances,  from  a  few  fossils 
and  bones,  and  other  like  proofs,  will  a  man,  after 
the  manner  of  Baron  Cuvier,  rightly  infer  what 
this  earth  was  before  it  became  what  it  now  is  ; 
what  its  climate  was  and  its  plants,  and  what  the 
aspect  of  its  forests  ;  how  the  mammoth  looked 
and  moved  amid  tall  trees,  and  in  and  out  of  their 
shadow  how  there  went  creeping  things  innumer- 
able and  monstrous  ;  at  what  swiftness  the  bird  of 
prey  flew  upon  its  victims,  and  what  its  victims 
were  ;  how  it  rained  then  as  it  rains  now,  and 
how  the  tide  rippled  on  the  sea-shore  then  as  it 
ripples  now,  and  how  the  shells  were  mostly  then 
what  are  not  to  be  found  now.      And  the  look  of 


144  EUTHANASY. 

what  all  this  was,  science  will  make  out  from  a 
few  vestiges. 

And  vestiges  of  ancient  thought  the  book  of 
Proverbs  is.  Our  text  is  one  of  these  spiritual 
remains,  and  for  us  it  has  a  meaning  plain  enough, 
though  perhaps  not  exactly  what  the  author 
meant ;  because  what  his  state  of  mind  was  in 
thinking  it  we  do  not  know,  for  at  that  time  the 
human  mind  was  under  another  economy  than  the 
Christian. 

"  Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  perish." 
There  may  be  hidden  meaning  in  these  words, 
perhaps,  but  there  is  plain  truth.  Most  of  the 
Proverbs  are  easy  to  be  understood,  though  some 
of  them  are  of  no  use  in  our  English  circum- 
stances, and  some  others  are  too  shrewd  for  Chris- 
tian simplicity.  But  all  of  them  are  interesting  as 
spiritual  remains.  Vestiges  they  are  of  an  era  in 
the  human  mind,  long,  long  back  ;  words  of  cau- 
tion, spiritual  armour,  fashioned  for  the  use  of  the 
young  in  the  anxious  minds  of  experienced  sages  ; 
proved  advice  for  behaviour  in  the  house,  the 
city,  and  the  field  ;  and  immortal  truths  which 
wise  men  coined  out  of  their  mortal  sufferings. 

"  Where  there  is  no  vision,  the  people  perish." 
W^hence  came  this  proverb  among  the  Jews,  for 
had  not  they  their  prophets  always,  and  visions 
always  .''  No,  for  the  school  of  the  prophets  in 
Ramah  was  sometimes  attended  in  vain  ;  and  as 


EUTHANASY.  145 

in  the  latter  days  of  Eli,  the  priest,  often  there  was 
no  open  vision.  And  why  w^as  it,  at  any  time, 
that  the  prophets  could  "  find  no  vision  from  the 
Lord  "  ?  It  was  because  the  people  had  disabled 
themselves  for  such  grace,  and  not  because  God 
was  changeable,  as  some  of  them  thought,  and  so 
withheld  his  free  spirit  from  them.  (lod  never 
withdrew  from  them  who  had  Abraham  to  their 
father ;  but  withdraw  from  Him  they  did,  not  over 
Jordan,  but  farther  still,  down  the  steeps  of  vice, 
into  that  thick  air  of  sensualized  thought,  which 
hardly  a  ray  of  spiritual  light  can  shine  into. 

Among  the  Jews,  when  there  was  no  vision, 
they  perished,  and  with  ourselves  spiritual  ruin  is 
very  common,  for  want  of  spiritual  insight.  Spir- 
itual insight  into  hfe  is  the  subject  of  this  sermon. 

I.  Let  us  think  about  life  as  activity.  In  God 
you  Hve  and  move  and  have  your  being.  That 
not  a  breath  do  you  draw,  nor  a  pulse  do  you 
feel,  nor  a  step  do  you  take,  but  in  dependence 
on  another  will  besides  your  own,  —  this  you  do 
not  doubt.  Nor  can  you  doubt  that  in  God  your 
spirits  live,  as  far  as  they  live  at  all  ;  for  like  the 
church  of  Sardis,  they  may  have  a  name  that 
they  live,  and  be  dead. 

Our  human  is  no  empty  existence.  The  cir- 
cumstances of  our  lives  are  not  unmeaning,  but 
infinitely  otherwise  ;  but  this  we  very  often  do  not 
see  for  want  of  vision.  High  as  heaven  and  wide 
10 


146  EUTHANASY. 

as  the  earth  is  the  atmosphere  of  holy  opportunity, 
in  which  our  souls  have  their  being.  Is  not  it  felt  ? 
Then  it  is  only  because  it  is  not  wished. 

Not  every  hour,  nor  every  day,  perhaps,  can 
generous  wishes  ripen  into  kind  actions  ;  but 
there  is  not  a  moment  that  cannot  be  freighted 
with  prayer.  But  do  you  say  that  you  cannot 
pray  except  when  night  solenmizes  your  spirits, 
or  before  the  day's  business  begins  ?  Begins  the 
disorder  of  your  souls  ;  say  that,  and  so  you  finish 
your  excuse.  But  do  you  establish  it  ?  No. 
For  that  would  be  unchristian  business,  and  to  be 
shunned  like  hell  itself,  that  could  not  be  done  in 
a  quiet,  loving,  and  devout  spirit. 

What !  you  have  perverse  wills  to  deal  with, 
have  you  ?  And  these  evils  you  do  not,  some  of 
you,  overcome  with  goodness,  but  oppose  with 
heat.  Firmness,  principle,  do  you  call  it  ?  But 
it  is  not.  For  be  sure  of  this,  that,  in  any  cir- 
cumstances, a  right  temper  towards  your  fellow- 
creatures  is  what  would  any  moment  pass  freely 
into  prayer.  Do  you  object,  then,  that  business 
is  not  and  cannot  be  made  religious  ?  Theologi- 
cal it  cannot  be  made,  but  religious  it  ought  to 
be.  Do  you  say  that  labor  can  be  executed 
rightly,  only  by  minding  it  and  thinking  of  nothing 
else  ?  But  is  not  it  done  sometimes  sulkily,  and 
sometimes  cheerfully  ?  And  cannot  it  also  be 
done  trustfully  ?     And  would  it  be  done  any  the 


EUTHANASY.  147 

less  thoroughly,  if  the  laborer  felt  himself  some- 
thing better  than  a  machine,  if  the  ploughman  felt 
himself  more  than  a  continuation  of  the  plough- 
handle  as  he  holds  it,  and  if  he  were  glad  at  being 
a  worker  together  with  God,  —  God  in  the  ele- 
ments, and  himself  in  the  flesh  ?  Does  any  one 
still  contend  that  in  trade  a  man  cannot  be  spiritu- 
ally-minded, and  that  in  the  throng  of  domestic 
cares  the  spirit  is  quenched,  and  does  not  and  can- 
not live  ?  Then  the  old  anchorites  were  right  in 
retiring  from  town  and  home  into  solitude.  For 
is  not  this  the  worst  thing  possible,  and  the  most 
horrible,  to  be  without  God  in  the  world  ? 

To  be  born  in  heathen  ignorance  of  God  is  the 
worst  misfortune.  But,  whether  in  a  counting- 
house,  or  handling  tools,  or  busied  with  domes- 
tic employments,  to  remain  in  circumstances  that 
close  the  avenues  of  the  soul  against  God's  Holy 
Spirit,  —  and  this  through  nearly  the  whole  of  six 
days  out  of  seven,  and  therefore  through  nearly 
the  whole  of  life,  —  this  is  not  misfortune,  if  it  is 
what  we  know  ;  for  it  is  crime.  Crime  those 
early  anchorites  felt  it,  and  so  they  left  their 
homes  and  their  old  places  of  business  and  pleas- 
ure. And  criminality  there  is  in  us,  if  we  are 
living  large  portions  of  time  in  a  way  that  is  with- 
out God.  But  in  all  probability  it  is  not  what 
we  have  to  do,  but  it  is  our  spirits,  that  want 
changing.      And  they  may  be  so  changed,  and  be 


148  EUTHANASY. 

made  so  familiar  with  loftier  views  of  life,  and  so 
eager  after  righteousness,  that,  in  the  field,  and  the 
shop,  and  the  house,  what  is  now  a  monotony  of 
work  for  them  may  itself  become  an  exercise  unto 
godliness. 

God  forces  man  to  toil,  and  it  is  well ;  because, 
without  life  were  laborious,  much  of  what  is  best 
in  it  would  never  be.  But  in  exertion  there  is 
what  is  not  often  thought  of.  This  less-heeded 
virtue  of  it  I  will  now  speak  of. 

There  are  kinds  of  action  that  are  specially 
favorable  to  the  formation  of  a  good  character  ; 
such  as  relieving  those  who  are  in  want,  risking 
life  in  good  causes,  and  devoting  one's  days  to 
such  works  as  are,  like  virtue,  their  own  reward, 
all  unrewarded  else.  But  the  merest  toil,  the 
merest  muscular  exertion,  draws  character  out  and 
helps  to  fix  it.  Every  stroke  of  the  hammer  on 
the  anvil  hardens  a  little  what  is  at  the  time  the 
temper  of  the  smith's  mind  ;  if  blasphemous,  he 
is  morally  the  worse  for  working  ;  but  if  hopeful, 
trustful,  then,  though  the  blow  rings  only  on  the 
iron,  it  is  a  blow  for  goodness,  and  it  is  struck 
against  sin  and  on  the  side  of  God  ;  and  because 
struck  in  the  faith  and  cheerfulness  of  the  man's 
soul,  his  faith  and  cheerfulness  are  in  that  way 
exerted,  though  indirectly  ;  and  so  those  divine 
feelings  are  strengthened  in  him  a  little.  The  toil 
of  the  ploughman  furrows  the  ground,  and  so  it 


EUTHANASY.  149 

does  his  brow  with  wrinkles,  visibly  ;  and  invisi- 
bly, but  quite  as  certainly,  it  furrows  the  current 
of  feeling  common  with  him  at  his  work  into  an 
almost  unchangeable  channel. 

What  exertion  a  man  makes  from  day  to  day 
makes  intenser  his  ordinary  mood.  It  makes 
the  sensual  man  more  brutish  still  ;  and  him  in 
whom  there  is  little  vision  it  makes  still  blinder 
to  God  and  goodness,  and  what  life  is  ;  while  at 
hard  work,  along  with  deep  breath  the  saint  draws 
in  holiness. 

The  monks  of  old  knew  that,  for  willing  per- 
sons, there  is  a  religious  use  even  in  manual  labor. 
It  was  a  saying  with  one  of  the  fathers  of  the 
Church,  and  with  some  monasteries  was  a  motto, 
that  to  work  well  is  to  pray  well. 

Bodily  exertion  makes  mental  earnestness  ;  — 
earnestness  in  what  you  will,  —  what  you  choose 
to  let  your  working  mood  be.  Be  discontented 
with  your  lot  in  life,  —  in  other  words,  be  dissatis- 
fied with  God, — commonly  work  in  that  state  of 
feeling,  and  then  every  day  your  mind  will  dark- 
en, and  every  effort  of  your  arm  will  help  to  rivet 
on  your  soul  the  chains  of  perdition.  Chains  of 
perdition  !  The  metaphor  does  but  hide  the  truth. 
For  your  soul's  godless,  joyless  temper  is  itself 
perdition  ;  and  the  stripping  your  soul  of  the  flesh 
would  itself  leave  you  in  hell. 

What !  hell  for  what  is  hardly  called  a  crime, 


150  EUTHANASY. 

—  for  what  is  less  than  fraud,  lust,  and  falsehood  ! 
But  whh  no  joy  and  peace  in  believing,  is  a  mind 
guiltless  ?  and  shut  against  the  Holy  Spirit,  is  not 
a  soul  sinful  ?  In  the  vision  of  judgment  in  the 
Revelation,  St.  John  counts  as  the  victims  of  the 
second  death,  the  abominable,  and  murderers,  and 
whoremongers,  and  idolaters,  and  all  liars.  But 
these  are  not  all  whom  he  names  ;  there  are  two 
other  classes,  and  in  his  mention  of  them  they 
precede  the  abominable  and  the  murderer,  and 
these  are  the  fearful  and  the  unbelieving.  They 
are  the  first  in  St.  John's  list  of  the  wicked,  and 
theirs  is  the  state  of  mind  in  which  all  wickedness 
begins.  Murder,  lust,  lying,  are  manifestations 
of  an  evil  spirit  ;  of  which  evil  spirit  the  very  es- 
sence is  unbelief.  Passion  throws  a  shade  against 
the  sun  of  righteousness,  and  in  that  eclipse  the 
benighted  man  sins  ;  for  no  man  ever  did  wrong, 
feeling  full  faith  in  God  the  while. 

Quite  away  from  all  feeling  of  God  no  man 
ever  quite  escapes  ;  and  into  the  most  darkened 
spirit  a  few  rays  of  the  Divine  Majesty  will  flash. 
And  most  persons  are  accessible  to  religious  in- 
fluences for  an  hour  or  two  on  Sunday,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  on  other  days.  But  this  does  not 
show  religious  character,  but  only  religious  capa- 
city. The  cheater  and  the  debauchee  have  times 
of  mournful  longing  for  their  lost  innocence.  But 
tlrs   does   not  show   that  they  are  virtuous,  but 


EUTHANASY.  151 

only  that  they  are  capable  of  becoming  so.  And 
so  with  many  a  one,  his  regular  prayers  betoken, 
not  that  he  is  religious,  but  that  he  might  be  so  if 
he  were  to  will  it.  The  holy  spirit  is  a  spirit, 
and  not  one  mood  of  the  mind  ;  it  is  not  sabbat- 
ical, but  daily  ;  it  is  not  a  morning  and  an  even- 
ing temper,  but  a  perpetual  presence  in  us. 

O,  there  is  a  spirit  that  Christians  have,  that 
makes  domestic  and  mechanical  work  be  more 
devout  than  what  service  often  a  priest  per- 
forms ;  making  it  be  done  heartily,  as  unto  the 
Lord,  and  not  unto  men.  There  is  a  spirit  that 
is  quickened,  and  not  quenched,  by  vexations  ;  a 
spirit  of  forgiveness,  enforced,  and  free,  and  re- 
joicing :  for  he  that  is  forgiving  in  this  world  is 
blessedly  conscious  of  being  himself  forgiven  in 
another  world,  and  for  ever.  And  no  one  ever 
hushes  what  he  might  think  his  just  anger  into 
silence,  without  feeling  that  there  is  another  life 
dweUing  in  his  little  life,  —  God  in  his  soul.  And 
so  in  his  soul  he  has  the  peace  of  God  rise  and 
spread  over  what  would  otherwise  have  been  the 
disorder  of  his  passions.  Most  lives  are  thronged 
with  anxieties  ;  but  there  is  a  spirit  that  is  not 
overcome  of  these  things,  but  that  bears  with  them 
in  the  high  thought  of  being  in  fellowship  with 
God  ;  for  if  we  have  to  endure  evils,  God  bears 
with  their  existence  too. 

Whether  or  not  this  Christian  spirit  is  his,  ev- 


152  EUTHANASY. 

ery  one  knows  and  cannot  but  know.  Now  this 
spirit  is  being  strengthened  within  you,  or  it  is 
being  shut  out  from  you,  in  every  thing  you  do, 

—  by  the  pleasures  you  take,  and  the  labors  you 
undertake.  You  are  capable  of  being,  and  some 
time  you  may  will  to  be,  what  as  yet  only  your 
enthusiasm  thrills  to  in  a  hymn,  or  some  better 
hour  now  and  then  ;  but  you  are  yourself  what 
your  common  mood  is,  and  that  only  ;  and  that 
mood  is  made  more  abiding  in  you  by  every  yes 
and  no  of  your  speaking,  and  by  whatever  use 
you  make  of  your  hands. 

II.  Let  us  now  consider  what  is  the  spiritual 
effect  upon  us  of  the  outer  world.  The  sights 
and  sounds  of  nature  stream  into  our  minds,  a 
force  for  good  to  the  good  soul,  and  for  evil  to 
the  soul  that  is  evil.  '  Nor  is  this  so  strange,  if  we 
think  on  some  experiences  of  our  own.  Perhaps 
with  us  all  there  have  been  mysterious   seasons, 

—  summer  evenings,  oftenest,  —  in  which  all  na- 
ture about  us  has  felt  instinct  with  meaning  ;  when 
our  spirits  have  thrilled  into  the  same  tone  with 
the  wind  in  the  tree-tops,  and  rock,  and  river,  and 
the  distant  stars  have  felt  as  though  struggling  with 
their  dumbness  for  speech  with  us. 

There  is  some  incitement  of  nature  upon  us 
nearly  always,  perhaps,  though  we  may  not  know 
of  it.  Like  our  bodies,  our  souls  are  affected 
by  gloom  and  sunshine,  day  and  night,  summer 


EITTHANASY.  153 

and  winter.  For  instance,  a  bright  day  makes  us 
decided  in  our  minds,  and  it  shines  precision  into 
our  purposes.  While  in  the  evening  we  may 
notice  that  it  is  with  some  states  of  our  spirits  as 
it  is  with  some  plants,  which  flower  only  in  the 
night-time.  With  the  twilight  our  hearts  begin  to 
soften,  but  in  what  way,  darkness  has  nothing  to 
do  with.  For  while  one  man  is  softened  into 
pure  affection  by  the  evening,  another  has  his 
feelings  relax  into  debauchery. 

Also,  when  the  limiting  world  is  shaded  from 
our  eyes,  the  feeling  of  the  infinite  is  freer  within 
us,  and  it  blends  with  our  other  feelings  and 
makes  them  stronger,  and  passionately  full  ;  and 
so  our  spirits  feel  sublimed  by  the  awfulness  of 
night,  and  the  world  around  us  is  transfigured  ; 
and  so  much  so,  that  to  our  altered  mood  vice  it- 
self is  altered,  and  is  not  the  odious  thing  of  mid- 
day, but  a  fruit,  forbidden  indeed,  but  hanging  still 
on  the  tree  of  knowledge,  and  not  fallen  into  the 
common  -  mire  of  sensualism.  And  so  damnation 
is  often  plucked  and  eaten  under  the  spell  of 
night,  by  those  who  would  never  have  so  sinned 
in  the  day.  Never  have  so  acted  tlie  sin,  is  the 
truth  ;  for  the  sinfulness  itself  must  have  been  in 
them  before,  because  outward  circumstances  do 
not  make  any  feeling  in  us,  they  only  quicken  it. 
And  often  a  good  man  will  thrill  with  holy  zeal 
from  the  same  cause  that  makes  another  man's 


154  EUTHANASY. 

heart  throb  only  with  selfish  anxiety.  Thus,  too, 
night  does  not  appear  one  thing  to  one  man,  and 
another  to  another  ;  for  it  has  the  same  look  to 
every  human  eye  ;  but  it  has  not  the  same  feeling 
to  every  spirit,  but  much  otherwise.  For  in 
I  many  things  our  souls  feel  only  what  they  are 
1  ready  to  feel.  And  so  darkness  is  to  one  per- 
son like  the  shadow  of  God's  hand  upon  the 
earth,  and  under  it  he  rejoices  with  trembling ; 
while  another  man  feels  it  like  a  disguise  to  walk 
in,  and  he  loves  it  better  than  light,  only  because 
his  deeds  are  evil. 

To  the  evil-disposed,  the  whole  world  is  a 
temptation  ;  and  all  the  changes  in  it  are  so  many 
vicious  allurements  ;  and  the  very  voice  of  nature 
is  turned  into  fleshly  suggestions.  While,  to  a 
Christian,  nature  is  as  pure  as  her  Maker,  and  is 
full  of  his  expression.  David's  feehngs  may  be 
ours.  May  be  ?  They  must  be.  They  will 
be  ours,  if  in  this  world  of  God's  we  are  God's 
children  ;  and  we  shall  feel  how  the  heavens  do 
declare  the  glory  of  our  God,  and  how  the  earth 
is  full  of  his  goodness.  Yes,  there  is  a  state  of 
mind  in  which  God's  presence  everywhere  is 
what  is  felt,  as  well  as  known,  and  in  which  the 
Maker  of  heaven  and  earth  is  more  than  a  devout 
phrase,  —  is  a  living  reality,  a  felt  Godhead,  the 
indwelling  spirit  of  the  green  earth  and  the  fiery 
stars. 


EUTHANASY.  155 

Only  let  us  love  God,  and  then  nature  will 
compass  us  about  like  a  cloud  of  divine  witness- 
es ;  and  all  influences  from  the  earth,  and  things 
on  the  earth,  will  be  ministers  of  God  to  do  us 
good.  The  breezes  will  whisper  our  souls  into 
peace  and  purity  ;  and  in  a  valley,  or  from  a  hill- 
lop,  or  looking  along  a  plain,  delight  in  beauti- 
ful scenery  will  pass  into  sympathy  with  that  in- 
dwelling though  unseen  spirit,  of  whose  presence 
beauty  is  everywhere  the  manifestation,  faint,  in- 
deed, because  earthly.  Then  not  only  will  the 
stars  shed  us  light,  but  they  will  pour  from  heaven 
sublimity  into  our  minds,  and  from  on  high  will 
rain  down  thoughts  to  make  us  noble.  God 
dwells  in  all  things  ;  and  felt  in  a  man's  heart, 
he  is  then  to  be  felt  in  every  thing  else.  Only 
let  there  be  God  within  us,  and  then  every  thing 
outside  us  will  become  a  godlike  help. 

In  the  morning,  we  shall  wake  up  to  work 
"while  it  is  called  to-day,"  and  more  deeply 
every  night  will  darkness  solemnize  our  spirits  ; 
and  the  four  seasons,  as  they  change,  spring  into 
summer,  and  autumn  into  winter,  will  ripen  our 
little  faith  into  ''joy  and  peace  in  believing"; 
and  every  year,  more  and  more  clearly,  the  world 
will  be  for  us  ''  a  glass,  in  which  we  all  with  open 
face,  beholding  the  glory  of  the  Lord,  shall  be 
changed  into  the  same  image  from  glory  to  glory, 
even  as  by  the  spirit  of  the  Lord." 


15^ 


EUTHANASY. 


III.  Of  action  in  life  and  of  the  scenery  of 
life  we  have  thought ;  now  let  us  think  of  partici- 
pation in  life,  —  of  life  as  shared  with  others. 

"  He  that  loveth  not  his  brother  abideth  in 
death  "  ;  so  wrote  the  Apostle  John  ;  and  thus 
Jesus  Christ  said:  —  "I  say  unto  you,  Love 
your  enemies."  But  out  of  the  circle  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, and  beyond  those  to  whom  we  can 
reach  a  gift  with  our  hands,  what  is  Christian  lov- 
ing ?  It  is  not  merely  not  hating,  as  the  common 
notion  is,  but  it  is  spiritual  sympathy. 

"  What  is  my  neighbour's  misfortune  to  me  ? 
for  he  was  no  friend  of  mine."  So  says  Re- 
spectability. And  what  said  William  Hazlitt, 
who  dared  to  speak  out  many  things  that  most 
men  feel,  but  only  few  confess  }  Now  Hazlitt 
was  a  kind-hearted  man,  and  yet  he  has  written 
that  men  never  hear  of  the  ill-fortune  of  their 
friends  without  being  secretly  pleased.  And  with 
Christian  exceptions,  this  is  a  thing  to  be  believ- 
ed. For  perfect  friendship  is  impossible  in  any 
but  a  Christian  spirit.  It  is  not  to  be  felt  out  of 
social  instinct  only,  joined  though  it  may  be  to 
intellectual  refinement  and  a  quick  sense  of  honor. 
This  is  the  friendship  of  the  world,  and  it  is  what 
may  be  enmity  with  God. 

Man,  the  child  of  God,  may  be  a  true  friend, 
but  not  the  man  of  Hazlitt's  observatior,  not  the 
man  of  the  world,  not  a  man  merely,  though  thor- 
oughly, well  educated. 


EUTHANASY.  157 

There  is  pleasure  in  the  sight  of  tlie  same  faces 
day  by  day  ;  and  so  there  is  in  the  intimacy  of 
those  who  can  be  helpful  to  one  another,  as  they 
contrive  and  labor  in  the  same  corner  of  the  earth  ; 
but  for  true  friendship,  the  world  must  be  felt  as 
something  more  than  a  workshop  ;  it  must  be  the 
busy  porch' of  infinity. 

This  is  the  feeling  that  perfects  friendship  ;  and 
it  is  what  perfects  that  love  which  is  the  fulfilling 
of  the  law.  Sympathy,  fellow-feeling  with  one 
another  as  spirits,  immortal  spirits, — this  makes 
the  temper,  which,  when  it  has  opportunity,  does, 
and  is  glad  to  do,  good  unto  all  men  ;  which  re- 
joices with  them  that  do  rejoice,  and  weeps  with 
them  that  weep.  Is  this  our  mind  ?  For  if  it  is 
not,  we  are  perilously  wrong.  Our  state  is  not 
only  not  right,  but  it  is  what  gets  worse  every 
day. 

It  is  not  enough  for  a  man  to  love  his  family 
tenderly  ;  it  is  not  enough  for  him  to  love  a  friend 
or  two,  so  as  to  be  willing  to  halve  his  property 
with  them  ;  and  to  the  poor,  it  is  not  enough  for 
him  to  give  alms,  for  this  the  Pharisees  did,  and 
freely  ;  and  domestic  love  and  friendly  attachment 
a  man  may  feel  who  bitterly  hates  his  enemies. 

Christian  love  not  only  relieves  a  poor  man's 
nakedness  and  hunger,  but  it  strengthens  his  soul 
with  sympathy  ;  and  domestic  and  friendly  affec- 
tion it  subhmes  out  of  capricious  instinct  into  a 


158  EUTHANASY. 

feeling,  Which,  for  an  unfailing  fountain,  has  the 
depth  of  infinity  itself,  and  for  brightness,  God's 
smile  upon  it,  and  for  warmth,  hopes  that  glow 
with  immortality. 

God  !  of  what  grandeur  this  life  of  ours  is  made 
capable  !  In  the  eye  of  faith,  what  a  glory  it 
often  wears  !  Spiritually  we  are  what  we  will  be, 
and  the  meanest  of  us  may  have  a  day  such  as 
kings  and  prophets  longed  for  once,  but  never 
saw.  For  now  God  is  known  in  Christ,  and  now 
in  Christ  our  spiritual  nature  is  regenerate,  larger 
in  capacity,  and  richer  in  opportunity,  and  what 
may  become  in  all  of  us  that  which  Jesus  felt,  as 
he  prayed,  "  I  in  them,  and  thou  in  me,  that  they 
may  be  made  perfect  in  one." 

Look  at  the  life  of  a  saint.  It  is  honorable 
and  beautiful  outwardly,  but  inwardly  it  is  nobler 
still  ;  just  as  behind  the  very  brightness  of  the 
stars  is  hidden  the  exceeding  and  indwelling  maj- 
esty of  God.  In  the  heart  of  a  saint,  how  sweetly 
all  his  anxieties  are  soothed  into  peace,  mysterious 
and  "not  as  the  world  giveth  "!  No,  not  as  the 
world  giveth  !  For  when  heaven  and  earth  shall 
have  passed  away,  that  peace  will  have  outlived 
the  disorder  it  controlled  among  the  passions,  and 
will  have  hushed  for  the  soul  her  fears  for  a  per- 
ishing universe. 

In  the  mind  of  a  saint,  there  is  not  a  thought 
but  has  the  most  wonderful  relations.     It  is  holy, 


EUTHANASY.  159 

because  God  Most  High  is  holy  ;  it  is  solemn 
with  the  unknown,  but  fast  coming,  day  of  judg- 
ment ;  it  is  self-denying  in  and  through  the  spirit 
of  Christ  upon  Calvary  ;  it  is  trustful  with  the 
faith  of  many  days'  past  prayers  ;  and  it  is  cheer- 
ful with  that  joy  of  God  with  which  the  whole 
universe  is  instinct,  but  which  on  earth  wells  up 
nowhere  so  freely  and  purely  as  into  a  believing 
mind.  While  over  the  head  of  a  saint,  the  mean- 
est cottage  has  heaven  open  ;  and  nigh  him  always 
is  a  door  to  be  opened  by  prayer,  and  at  which 
to  ask  is  to  have  given  him  a  wealth  of  goodness, 
and  comfort,  and  assurance  of  heaven.  "  For 
every  one  that  asketh  receiveth,  and  he  that  seek- 
eth  findeth." 

Faith  is  the  inspiration  of  nobleness  ;  it  is  the 
strength  of  integrity  ;  it  is  the  life  of  love,  and  is 
everlasting  growth  for  it  ;  it  is  courage  of  soul, 
and  bridges  over  for  our  crossing  the  gulf  between 
worldliness  and  heavenly-mindedness  ;  and  it  is 
the  sense  of  the  unseen,  without  which  we  could 
not  feel  God  nor  hope  for  heaven. 

Faith  is  the  very  life  of  the  spirit ;  how  shall 
we  maintain  it,  how  increase  it  ?  By  living  it. 
Faith  grows  with  well-doing.  What  little  faith 
you  have,  only  live  it  for  one  day,  and  it  will  be 
stronger  to-morrow.  Live  with  your  fellow-crea- 
tures as  their  brother  to-day,  and  to-morrow  God 
will  be  felt  by  you  as  your  Father  in  heaven  the 


wo  EUTHANASy. 

more  tenderly.    We  become  children  of  the  High 
est,  through  loving  like  our  brethren  the  dwellers 
of  the  whole  wide  earth.      And  it  is  a  law  of  our 
spirits,  that,  in  many  ways,  what  we  regard  others 
as  being  we  ourselves  become. 

if  you  treat  another  as  having  no  feeling,  you 
harden  your  own  heart.  If  you  are  suspicious 
commonly,  what  does  your  temper  betoken  ?  It 
means  that  you  want  faith  in  goodness.  And  you 
may  allow  yourself  to  doubt  your  friends  so  much 
as  to  have  but  little  faith  in  God  at  last,  and  so 
as  yourself  to  become  worse  than  your  own  sus- 
picions about  your  acquaintance.  Disinterested 
you  cannot  continue,  nor  become,  if  you  are  to 
be  thinking  often  as  to  whether  other  persons  are 
selfish  or  not.  A  man  that  is  in  want,  you  shall 
treat  as  a  suffering  brother,  and  not  relieve  as  a 
beggar,  else  your  own  soul  shall  be  beggared  of 
delicacy.  Here  is  a  fellow-creature  in  reach  of 
your  hand,  and  in  want  of  help,  which  you  could 
give  if  you  would  ;  now  if  you  do  not,  it  is  be- 
cause to  you  the  man  is  not  even  as  the  least  of 
Christ's  brethren  ;  and  so  every  time  you  see 
him,  you  are  spiritually  the  worse  ;  for  to  shut 
the  eyes  against  virtuous  opportunity  weakens 
virtuous  perception.  Here  is  another  man  whose 
most  earnest  thoughts  are  of  Mammon,  whose 
pleasures  are  of  eating,  and  drinking,  and  vanity, 
and  whom  the  world  loveth  as  its  own.     Now  if 


EUTHANASY.  161 

you  have  a  love  for  that  man  that  is  not  pity, 
then 

"  His  spirit  shall  have  power  to  weigh  thy  spirit  down." 

Here  is  a  good  man  who  is  poor  ;  now  if  you 
withhold  your  regard  from  his  virtue  on  account 
of  his  being  poor,  poor  will  you  yourself  grow  in 
worth.  Here  is  another  fellow-creature  ;  he  is  a 
servant  of  yours,  perhaps,  and  perhaps  you  feel 
towards  him  not  unkindly,  and  yet  only  as  though 
he  were  some  contrivance  of  flesh  and  blood. 
So  much  the  worse  for  you,  then.  For  the  man 
has  a  living  soul  within  him,  — ^a  soul  despairing 
and  hopeful,  suffering  and  enjoying,  loving  and 
praying,  and  not  without  a  looking  for  of  judg- 
ment. And  some  little  it  is  through  sympathy 
with  his  soul  that  yours  is  meant  to  grow.  Here 
is  some  bad  or  ignorant  person  within  the  reach 
of  your  influence  ;  now  if  you  are  heedless  of 
his  crown  of  immortality,  then  the  fine  gold  of 
your  own  will  grow  dim. 

"  And  he  that  shuts  Love  out,  in  turn  shall  be 
Shut  out  from  Love,  and  on  her  threshold  lie, 
Howling  in  outer  darkness.     Not  for  this 
Was  common  clay  ta'en  from  the  common  earth, 
Moulded  by  God,  and  tempered  with  the  tears 
Of  angels  to  the  perfect  shape  of  man." 

Think  of  what  St.  Paul  has  written,  —  "We, 
being  many,  are  one  body  in  Christ,  and   every 
one  members  one  of  another." 
11 


168  EUTHANASY. 

This  is  the  manner  of  our  being  ;  it  is  of  God, 
the  way  of  our  spiritual  growth  now,  and  perhaps 
for  ever  ;  that  morally  we  make  ourselves  what 
we  treat  others  as  being. 

Yes  !  for  the  spirit,  all  things  have  spiritual  ef- 
fect. All  actions,  —  such  as  occur  only  once  in  a 
lifetime,  and  such  as  make  up  our  daily  business, 
and  even  what  are  only  momentary,  —  all  actions 
are  expression,  unavoidably.  But  it  is  for  our- 
selves to  will  what  they  shall  be  expressive  of, 
and  so  strengthen  in  us,  —  whether  apathy,  self- 
will,  discontent,  sensuality,  or  a  spirit  hopeful,  and 
cheerful,  and  loving,  and  joyful  in  God. 

Yes  !  for  the  spirit,  all  things  have  spiritual 
effect.  Nature  is  an  excitement  for  us,  more  or 
less,  almost  always  ;  but  whether  for  good  or  evil 
is  according  to  what  our  spirits  are.  One  man  is 
made  moody  by  hearing  the  winter's  wind,  while 
another  is  sublimed  by  the  almightiness  that  flies 
upon  its  wings.  Silence  is  a  spiritual  power  to 
feel  ;  and  in  it  one  person  feels  the  more  inclined 
to  sin,  while  another  man,  as  it  were,  hears  from 
on  high  the  music  of  the  spheres,  known  only  to 
those  who  are  being  taught  by  virtue 

"  How  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime." 

Yes !  for  the  spirit,  all  things  have  spiritual 
effect.  ^^1  ari'vr  in  life,  along  with  others,  has. 
Very  largely  we  ourselves    become  what  others 


EUTIIANASY.  163 

are  to  us.  If  to  our  regards  they  are  not  spirit- 
ual, then  we  are  not  spiritual.  If  others  are  to  us 
living  bodies  only,  then  very  nearly  of  the  flesh, 
fleshly,  we  must  be.  But  if  in  others  we  honor 
the  image  of  God,  then  upon  our  own  souls  it  will 
come  out  and  brighten.  Love  truly,  and  then 
other  men's  souls  will  be  sources  of  your  soul's 
growth.  Sympathize  with  the  good  in  their  en- 
deavours, and  you  will  yourself  be  morally  the 
stronger.  Revere  the  wise,  and  yours  will  be  the 
state  of  mind  into  which  wisdom  comes  most  free- 
ly. Love  litde  children,  and  something  of  their 
innocence  will  come  over  your  mind,  and  whiten 
its  darker  spots.  Love  them  that  are  old,  and 
your  soul  will  be  as  though  the  longer  experienced 
in  life. 

This  life  that  we  are  living  in  is  not  empty  of 
power,  but  full  of  it,  —  power  that  is  on  us  and 
about  us  always,  and  into  the  nature  of  which  we 
have  vision  given  us,  that  we  should  not  perish. 

Wish  to  be  a  child  of  God  ;  and  then  sunshine 
and  frost,  and  friends  and  enemies,  and  youth  and 
age,  and  business  and  pleasure,  and  all  things,  will 
help  to  make  you. 


164  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Our  many  deeds,  the  thoughts  thai  we  have  thought,  — 

They  go  out  from  us  thronging  every  hour ; 

And  in  them  all  is  folded  up  a  power 

That  on  the  earth  doth  move  them  to  and  fro; 

And  mighty  are  the  marvels  they  have  wrought 

In  hearts  we  know  not,  and  may  never  know.  — F.  W.  Faber. 


MARHAM. 

I  LIKE  your  sermon,  Oliver.  Why  did  not 
you  go  on  with  your  purpose,  and  write  the  vol- 
ume which  you  meant,  on  tlie  religiousness  of 
daily  life  ? 

AUBIN. 

Because  I  became  too  poor  to  pay  for  the 
printing  of  it.  Instead  of  my  making  sermons 
to  others,  I  had  myself  to  listen  to  one  every 
day,  preached  to  me  out  of  a  stone  pulpit,  by 
poverty.  One  day  the  text  was,  "  It  is  good 
for  a  man  that  he  bear  the  yoke  in  his  youth  "  ; 
and  another  day  it  was,  "  Man  that  is  born  of 
a  woman  is  of  few  days,  and  full  of  trouble  "  ; 
but  on  the  festival  days  of  the  soul,  it  was, 
"  As  dying,  and  behold  we  live ;  as  sorrow- 
ful, yet  always  rejoicing  ;  as  having  nothing, 
and  yet  possessing  all  things."  It  was  a  course 
of  sermons    that   lasted    with   me    a    long,    long 


EUTHANASY.  165 

time.  'But  I  am  the  better  for  it.  At  first,  the 
voice  of  the  preacher  was  distressing  to  me, 
but  my  ear  got  so  attuned  to  it  as  to  hear  it  like 
a  voice,  the  tones  of  which  God  was  using  to 
talk  to  me  with.  And  now  I  am  another  man 
/"or  what  I  learned  then.  I  am  not  the  same 
as  I  was,  either  in  mind  or  heart,  nor  in  my  way 
of  expressing  myself.  So  at  least  I  thought, 
on  lately  looking  over  the  sermon  which  you  have 
been  reading. 

MARHAM. 

What  I  am  sorry  for  is,  that  you  have  deserv- 
ed to  have  a  name 

AUBIN. 

To  be  printed  in  catalogues  of  old  books  ;  and 
I  have  not  got  it.  But  what  does  that  matter  ? 
Why  should  one  covet  being  forgotten  as  an  au- 
thor as  well  as  a  man  ?  Since  nearly  all  of  this 
generation  will  be  forgotten,  both  the  men  and  the 
books  of  it. 

MARHAM. 

A  few  years,  a  very  few  years,  and  of  us  two 
all  that  will  be  left  in  this  earth  will  be  a  little 
dust,  and  in  a  few  men's  minds  a  few  distant  rec- 
ollections of  us. 

AUBIN. 

Ay,  in  one  man  there  will  be  a  recollection  of 
your  having  shown  him  a  curious  book ;  on  anoth- 
er's tongue  there  will  be  some  faint  after-taste  of  a 


166  EUTHANASY. 

very  good  dinner  of  your  giving  ;  in  another,  there 
will  survive  the  way  you  looked  in  your  morning- 
gown  ;  while  in  the  memory  of  another,  there 
will  be  living  the  tones  in  which  you  said  he  was 
a  good  boy.  In  men's  minds  a  faint  remem- 
brance of  us,  and,  six  feet  deep  in  the  ground,  a 
little  blackness  in  the  mould,  will  be  all  our  re- 
mains in  the  world. 

MARHAM. 

Then  a  little  while  longer,  and  they  will  have 
vanished  ;  and  then,  ah  !  then  there  will  be  no 
trace  left  of  our  lives  ever  having  been. 

AUBIN. 

Been  what,  uncle  ?     Not  spent  in  vain. 

MARHAM. 

I  thought,  Oliver,  you  were  saying  that  we 
should  be  forgotten  soon. 

AUBIN. 

So  I  did.  But  I  did  not  mean  that  our  lives 
would  ever  be  unfelt ;  for  in  this  world  they  never 
will  be.  Babbage  says,  that,  with  every  word 
spoken,  the  air  vibrates,  and  the  particles  of  it 
are  altered  as  to  their  places  ;  that  the  winds, 
north,  south,  east,  and  west,  are  affected  every 
time  I  speak  ;  that,  with  my  voice,  the  atmos- 
pheric particles  in  this  room  have  their  places 
changed,  not  so  as  to  be  any  thing  to  us,  but  so 
as,  ages  hence,  to  witness  to  higher  minds  than 
ours  what  we  have  been  saying  this  afternoon. 


EUTHANASY.  167 

MARHAM. 

In  that  way,  there  is  more  truth  than  was  in- 
tended in  what  came  to  be  used  as  a  Christian 
epitaph,  —  JVbn  omnis  moriar,  I  shall  not,  all  of 
me,  die.  For  so  our  idlest  words  are  as  lasting 
as  the  earth. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  are  our  actions,  and  so  are  our  thoughts. 

MARHAM. 

And  more  lasting  than  the  earth  they  are  ;  for 
by  them  our  everlasting  souls  are  the  worse  or  the 
better. 

AUBIN. 

True.  But  what  I  mean  besides  is,  that  our 
influence  will  last  as  long  as  the  earth. 

MARHAM. 

Ours  will  ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  so  will  any  peasant's.  Because,  of 
course,  I  do  not  speak  of  the  endurance  of  names. 
For  they  are  only  one  or  two  persons  in  a  gener- 
ation, and  not  ten  out  of  a  whole  people,  who 
stand  in  the  sun  of  life  in  such  a  way  as  to  have 
their  shadows  lengthen  down  all  time. 

MARHAM. 

You  mean,  then 

AUBIN. 

That  my  cousins,  go  where  they  will,  are  liv- 
ing  impulses  in  society,   and  of  your   beginning. 


EUTHANASY 

And  just  as  there  is  something  of  your  grand- 
father in  you,  there  is  something  of  you  in  your 
grandchildren  ;  and  there  will  be  something  of 
them,  some  time,  in  their  children. 

MARHAM. 

No  doubt,  men's  lives  do  live  on  in  their  de- 
scendants. 

AUBIN. 

In  their  flesh  and  blood,  their  beating  hearts 
and  pliant  limbs  ;  but  so  they  do  in  other  ways, 
and  in  other  men.  For  every  good  deed  of  ours, 
the  world  will  be  the  better  always.  And  perhaps 
no  day  does  a  man  v/alk  down  a  street  cheerfully, 
and  like  a  child  of  God,  without  some  passenger's 
being  brightened  by  his  face,  and,  unknowingly  to 
himself,  catching  from  its  look  a  something  of  re- 
ligion, and  sometimes,  not  impossibly,  what  just 
saves  him  from  some  wrong  action. 

MARHAM. 

The  stream  of  society  is  such,  that  often  a 
pebble  falling  into  it  has  altered  its  course. 
Many  times,  words  lightly  spoken  have  been  car- 
ried against  thrones,  and  been  their  upsetting. 
And  many  a  little  event  has  had  in  it  what  in  its 
unfolding  filled  towns  and  countries,  and  men's 
minds,  and  ages.  I  say,  that,  under  Providence, 
it  has  done  this. 

AUBIN. 

An  ark  of  bulrushes  fetched  from  among  the 


EUTHANASY.  169 

flags  of  the  Nile  was  the  saving  of  Moses,  and 
the  dehverance  of  the  Israelites,  and  an  event 
through  which  the  Saviour  of  the  world  was  born 
where  he  was.  The  way  of  thinking  which  St. 
Paul  got  as  a  youth  influenced  his  way  of  view- 
ing and  arguing  the  Gospel  as  an  A  postle  of  the 
Gentiles,  so  that  when  Saul  of  Tarsus  was  lis- 
tening at  the  feet  of  Gamahel,  it  was  as  though 
the  whole  Christian  Church  had  sat  there.  And 
very  certainly  Augustine  would  never  have  been 
heard  of  in  the  world  so  much  and  so  long,  and 
even  now  so  reverently,  but  for  his  mother,  in 
whose  warm  temperament  he  shared,  and  after 
whose  earnest  prayers  on  his  behalf,  year  after 
year,  he  became  Christian. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  there  have  been  men  of  such  a  character 
and  standing  as  that,  through  happening  to  them, 
even  slight  things  have,  in  their  efi^ects,  become 
stupendous,  and  as  wide  as  the  world.  But  we 
were  speaking  just  now  of  common  life  and  ordi- 
nary men. 

AUBIN. 

And  without  common  men,  there  could  be  no 
uncommon  ones  ;  and  every  extraordinary  event 
has  its  roots  in  quite  ordinary  places.  Days  and 
years  are  linked  together,  and  so  are  men's  lives, 
by  chains  of  cause  and  efl^ect,  and  sometimes  cu- 
riously and  most  wonderfully.      So  that  it  is  pos- 


170  EUTHANASY. 

sible,  that  to-day  in  a  shop  what  an  artisan  is 
working  at  with  a  song  may  be  the  cause  —  no  ! 
one  means  —  of  filling  a  palace  with  grief  fifty 
years  hence,  and  of  changing  a  dynasty.  Or  one 
word  of  your  speaking  to  a  boy  this  morning  may 
prove  to  root  and  thrive  in  his  spirit,  like  good 
seed,  and  to  become  what  will  bear  fruit  for  a 
whole  neighbourhood,  and  perhaps  for  a  nation, 
and  for  ages. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  not  a  thing  that  could  ever  be  known. 

AUBIN. 

Not  in  this  world,  perhaps.  Nor  would  it  be 
good  for  us  to  know  such  things  ;  for  we  are 
weak  creatures,  and  we  might  get  to  do  what  is 
right  for  the  sake  of  its  grand  efl^ects,  and  not  for 
its  own  dear  lovehness.  But  though  much  of  the 
greatness  of  the  life  we  are  living  is  wisely  veiled 
from  us,  yet  we  cannot  believe  too  much  of  it. 
And  now,  uncle,  rays  from  the  stars  come  mil- 
lions of  millions  of  miles  together,  and  there  are 
millions  of  them  in  the  breadth  of  an  inch,  yet 
they  are  not  lost  in  one  another  ;  and  it  can  be 
told  of  any  one  of  these  rays  whether  it  shines 
from  a  sun  or  a  planet,  or  whether  from  a  solid 
or  a  liquid  mass.  Man  can  know  this  with  his 
eye  of  flesh  ;  so  that  it  is  not  impossible  that  an 
angel  may  be  able  to  trace  a  thought  out  of  one 
mind  into  another,  from  people  to  people,  and 
down  generations. 


EUTHANASY.  171 

MARHAM. 

It  is  not  so  unlikely  ;  and,  Oliver,  it  is  perhaps 
even  probable. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps  when  death  shall  make  us  spirits,  the 
spiritual  world  will  be  open  to  us,  and  all  the 
movements  in  it  ;  and  great  thoughts  will  look 
like  angels  going  from  soul  to  soul  ;  and  noble 
feeling  will  seem  electric,  as  it  spreads  ;  and  some 
words  will  be  echoing  for  ever,  out  of  the  recesses 
of  one  soul  into  the  chambers  of  another. 

MARHAM. 

The  watchwords  of  liberty  and  right. 

AUBIN. 

Hated,  and  wronged,  and  bhnd,  and  nearly 
friendless,  was  John  Milton,  during  the  latter  part 
of  his  life.  His  sufferings  were  great,  and  so 
was  his  faithfulness  ;  and  he  has  sat  down  in  the 
reward  of  them.  And  perhaps,  now  and  then, 
he  hears  from  his  throne  in  heaven  the  refining 
music  in  men's  minds  which  his  poetry  makes 
round  the  earth,  unceasingly.  I  knew  a  mother, 
who  died  with  her  arms  round  her  child,  praying 
God,  the  while,  to  guard  it.  And  now,  along 
her  son's  path,  shining  more  and  more  as  though 
unto  perfect  day,  is  to  be  seen  what  perhaps 
gladdens  her  with  the  certainty  that  the  fervent 
prayer  of  her  righteousness  did  avail  him  much. 
And  many  years  hence,  there  will  be  to  be  seen 


172  EUTHANASY. 

among  men  some  little  trace  of  my  having  lived  ; 
and  perhaps  I  shall  myself  see  it.  O,  that  would 
be  a  tender  delight  !     It  is  not  impossible,  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

In  heaven  every  sinner  that  repents  is  known 
of;  and,  very  likely,  so  are  the  means  of  his  con- 
version ;  and  if  so,  then  nearly  all  the  holy  influ- 
ences there  are  in  Christendom  must  be  known  of. 

AUBIN. 

I  shall  not  live  long  ;  nor  shall  I  be  in  the 
memories  of  men  very  long.  But  out  of  the 
characters  of  men  I  shall  never  die,  quite  :  no, 
not  in  many  ages.  I  like  the  thought  of  lasting 
on  in  the  earth,  any  way.  It  is  pleasant  to  me 
to  think  even  of  leaving  my  body  behind  me  in 
the  world. 

MARHAM. 

O,  is  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

Out  of  this  world  into  another  my  soul  shall  go, 
through  death.  Soon  this  earth  will  be  to  me 
what  my  body  was  buried  in.  My  body  will  rot 
and  become  dust  ;  but  it  will  be  my  dust.  And 
always  it  will  be  in  the  earth  ;  and  I  like  to  think 
so.  Dear  world  of  my  birth,  that  I  am  to  re- 
member for  ever  and  ever  !  I  have  had  pain  in 
it  often,  and  pleasure  often.  And,  O,  what  I  have 
learned  in  it  !  God,  and  Christ,  and  my  immor- 
tality !  And  I  have  got  the  knowledge  of  the 
Good,  the  Beautiful,  and  the  True. 


EUTHANASY.  173 

MARHAM. 

And  of  Human  Brotherhood. 

AUBIN. 

The  blood  of  which  God  has  made  all  nations 
of  the  earth  is  not  much  felt  yet,  as  being  one 
blood.  But  our  having  shared  in  it  will  be  a  near 
relationship  when  we  human  creatures  have  scat- 
tered ourselves  thinly  among  the  hosts  of  heaven. 
Then  to  have  been  of  the  same  generation  will 
be  like  having  been  of  the  same  family  ;  and, 
down  long  streets  of  stars,  we  shall  look  back  upon 
this  earth  as  the  little  home  we  all  hved  in  once. 
When  I  think  how  I  shall  remember  this  world 
after  death,  sometimes  there  are  moments  in  which 
I  do  love  the  very  dust  of  this  dear  earth. 

MARHAM.  I 

I  feel  so  sometimes,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Years  ago,  a  beggar  and  I  exchanged  looks  on 
a  road-side,  and  we  have  never  seen  one  another 
since;  and  we  never  shall  again,  in  this  world  ; 
but  after  many  ages,  perhaps,  we  shall  find  our- 
selves standing  side  by  side,  looking  up  at  the 
throne  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

There  lies  no  despised  Lazarus  at  my  door  ; 
but  perhaps  I  have  not  searched  far  enough  into 
my  neighbourhood.  I  could  help  the  poor  more 
than  I  do,  I  think.      There  are  some  things,  — 


174  EUTHANASY. 


luxuries  they  may  be  called,  —  which  I  might 
deny  myself,  and  perhaps  ought  to.  I  will  think 
of  this,  and  to-night  I  will 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  are  you  speaking  to  me,  or  only  to 
yourself  ?  for  I  do  not  hear  you. 

MARHAM. 

I  was  thinking  something  to  myself,  and  aloud, 
too,  I  suppose.  But,  Oliver,  go  on  with  what 
you  were  saying  :  now,  do. 

AUBIN. 

I  shall  die  soon.  The  hand  of  God  is  on  me. 
My  feelings  are  not  much  changed,  perhaps  ; 
but  they  are  stronger  than  what  they  were,  T 
think.  Now,  every  man  I  part  from  is  a  soul  to 
be  met  again,  and  every  face  I  see  is  what  will 
be  bright  with  the  light  of  heaven  some  time,  and 
in  my  sight.  Duty  reaches  down  ages  in  its  ef- 
fects, and  into  eternity  ;  and  when  a  man  goes 
about  it  resolutely,  it  seems  to  me  now  as  though 
his  footsteps  were  echoing  beyond  the  stars, 
though  only  heard  faintly  in  the  atmosphere  of 
this  world,  because  it  is  so  heavy.  Yes,  dear  un- 
cle, and  in  this  way  I  shall  still  hear  you,  though 
soon  you  will  hear  me  no  more.  But  often  when 
you  are  doing  a  good  action,  you  will  think 
the  light  of  it  is  to  be  seen  in  heaven,  and  that 
perhaps  I  am  seeing  it.  And  sometimes  after 
your  prayers  you  will  think  that,  some  way,  I  may 


EUTHANASY.  175 

know  of  them,  and  perhaps  join  in  some  of  them  ; 
for  now  and  then  I  may  be  near  the  elders  spoken 
of  in  the  Apocalypse,  as  having  every  one  of 
them  golden  vials  full  of  odors,  which  are  the 
prayers  of  saints.  What,  then,  is  death  ?  It 
will  be  a  concealment  of  me  from  the  world,  but 
not  a  hiding  of  the  world  from  me.  Always  there 
will  be  something  of  me  lasting  on  in  the  world  ; 
and  to  the  end  of  it  the  world  will  be  known  to 
me  in  some  things,  I  think.  Yes,  it  certainly  will 
be.  What  is  it,  then,  to  die  ?  It  is  not  to  be 
estranged  from  this  life  utterly.  O,  no  !  For  it 
is  to  be  taken  into  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  and 
to  feel  his  feelings  for  this  world,  and  to  look  back 
upon  it  from  under  the  light  of  his  eyes.  Death 
is  this,  and  it  is  beauty  and  it  is  peace 


I 


176  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


Silent  ruahes  the  swift.  Lord 
Through  ruined  systems  still  restored, 
Broad-sowing,  bleak  and  void  to  bless, 
Plants  with  worlds  the  wilderness. 
Waters  with  tears  of  ancient  sorrow 
Apples  of  Eden  ripe  to-morrow.  —  Em£RSON. 

I,  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time.  — Tennyson, 


AUBIN. 

0  FOR  a  day  of  ancient  Greece  !  O  to  have 
been  quickened  for  a  week  at  Rome,  in  Caesar's 
lifetime  !  O  that  I  had  had  a  day  with  the  priests 
of  Egypt  !  and  then  I  should  have  known  what 
intelligence  the  Sphinx  is  meant  to  look.  O  to 
have  had  an  hour  with  the  Druids  of  Stonehenge, 
and  so  to  have  learned  what  soul  was  in  their  do- 
ings there  !  O  for  one  of  the  days  of  the  school 
of  the  prophets  at  Ramah  ! 

MARHAM. 

They  are  wishes  which  you  would  be  none  the 
better  for  having,  Oliver  ;  for  if  they  were  good, 
they  would  not  be  impossible. 

AUBIN. 

1  should  like  to  have  had  a  week  at  the  court 
of  Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  and  a  month  at  Alexan- 


EUTHANASY.  177 

dria  in  the  second  century,  and  a  day  or  two  with 
the  sand-diggers  at  Rome  when  they  were  become 
Christians,  and  were  making  their  excavations  in 
the  earth,  into  churches,  and  tombs,  and  hiding- 
places  against  persecution. 

MARHAM. 

They  must  have  been  a  very  interesting  class 
of  men. 

AUBIN. 

I  should  like  to  have  had  a  day's  talk  with  Abe- 
lard.  And,  O  !  T  should  like  much  to  have  been 
a  Moor  of  Granada  for  a  while.  Human  nature 
I  should  like  to  know  in  all  its  varieties.  I  should 
like  to  be  an  Italian  for  a  week,  and  a  Norwegian, 
and  a  Hindoo,  and  I  do  not  know  what  else. 

MARHAM. 

Nor  I  either,  to  any  purpose.  For  such  ex- 
periences would  not  be  of  any  use,  or  else  God 
would  have  made  them  possible.  So  I  think, 
Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

My  dear  uncle,  you  are  quite  right.  And  be- 
sides, when  we  look  beyond  the  clothes,  and 
deeper  than  the  skin,  civilized  nations  are  not  so 
very  different  from  one  another.  Betwixt  five 
nations  there  are  not  greater  diversities  than  there 
often  are  in  the  tempers  of  any  five  members  of 
an  Anglo-Saxon  family  ;  only  in  the  household 
these  differences  do  not  seem  so  great,  because 
12 


178 


EUTHANASY. 


all  the  members  of  it  dress  alike  and  are  drilled 
into  like  habits.  If  a  man  loves  the  twenty  per- 
sons nearest  him,  and  so  sympathizes  truly  with 
their  peculiarities,  then  with  the  reading  of  a  few 
books  of  travels  he  knows  almost  as  much  of  hu- 
man nature  as  though  he  had  been  amongst  all 
nations. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  only  with  our  eyes  and  through  telescopes 
that  the  stars  are  to  be  known,  and  it  is  by  much 
travelling  and  searching  and  comparison  that  the 
various  kinds  of  flowers  and  plants  are  to  be 
known  that  grow  on  the  Andes  and  along  the  Or- 
egon, in  the  West  Indies  and  in  Australia.  But 
it  is  chiefly  out  of  a  loving  heart  that  mankind  is 
to  be  known.  There  are  good  men  who  have 
never  been  out  of  their  native  valleys,  who  are 
wiser  in  human  nature  than  thousands  are  who 
have  traversed  the  world. 

AUBIN. 

Nearly  wise,  I  would  say,  they  are.  They  have 
just  what  is  almost  wisdom,  and  what  would  be 
wisdom  at  once,  with  a  very  little  experience  of 
men.  I  have  known  one  or  two  such  persons,  and 
in  talking  with  them  I  was  always  expecting  some- 
thing wiser  than  what  they  said.  It  was  as  though 
they  were  always  just  about  to  become  great.  I 
think  the  state  of  mind  of  such  persons  is  what 
will  enlarge  in  heaven,  and  brighten  very  fast. 


EUTHANASY.  179 

MAEHAM. 

I  quite  think  that.  And  in  that  way  many  that 
are  last  now  will  be  first  hereafter. 

AUBIN. 

They  are  seraphs  elect,  as  is  sometimes  even 
to  be  felt  in  talking  with  them.  A  man  of  this 
character  I  knew  once,  who  was  a  pauper  ;  and  1 
never  saw  him  without  my  soul  being  humbled  in 
me.  For,  in  presence  of  his  goodness,  I  myself 
felt  so  unworthy  !  I  assisted  him  a  little,  and  only 
a  little,  for  I  was  myself  suffering  some  want  at 
the  time.  But  that  he  should  be  accepting  relief 
from  me  made  me  feel  that  there  must  be  a  world 
to  come,  in  which  for  him  and  me  to  be  in  juster 
places.  And  when  he  thanked  me,  with  humble 
words,  I  trembled  in  myself,  —  because  it  was  as 
though,  all  round  me,  the  universe  were  calling 
out  against  me  for  my  enduring  to  be  less  of  a 
sufferer  than  he  was  who  was  a  better  man  than 
myself. 

MARHAM. 

He  must  have  been  a  very  extraordinary  man, 
Oliver,  I  should  think. 

AUBIN. 

So  he  was,  uncle  ;  and  so  he  is  now.  He 
became  known  to  a  gentleman,  by  whom  he  was 
befriended  and  brought  forward  in  the  world,  and 
so  well,  as  that  he  is  now  a  man  of  station  and 
some  public  repute.     In  his  profession  he  is  very 


180  . EUTHANASy. 

eminent ;  and  he  exemplifies,  to  some  extent,  the 
truth  of  what  we  have  been  saying. 

MARHAM. 

I  am  so  persuaded,  Oliver,  that,  though  a  man 
can  be  cunning  without  a  heart,  he  cannot  be  wise. 
It  is  against  the  Gospel  to  suppose  he  can  be. 
And*  humble,  humble,  we  must  be,  if  we  would 
know  any  thing  to  any  spiritual  purpose. 

AUBIN. 

[  And  especially  if  we  would  know  human  na- 
ture ;  for  one  way  of  learning  it  is  out  of  our  own 
hearts,  and  they  are  books  that  can  only  be  read 
in  humihty. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  humble  we  must  be,  before  we  can  know 
ourselves,  and  be  willing  to  see  that  in  our  own 
hearts  are  the  beginnings  of  what  might  be  hke 
the  vices  of  every  nation  in  the  world. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  one  soul  in  all  us  human  creatures. 
In  my  mind  are  the  elements  of  all  other  men's 
characters  ;  and  my  many  moods  are  so  many 
national  tempers.  In  the  middle  of  summer  and 
in  the  heat  of  the  day,  now  and  then,  I  am  a 
Brahmin  ;  and  sometimes  in  the  middle  of  winter, 
with  the  wind  roaring  in  the  wood,  I  feel  like  a 
Scandinavian.  A  word  or  two  from  some  one, 
some  little  event  or  other  happening  to  me,  a  little 
bile  more  or  less  in  my  system,  the  sort  of  day, 


EUTHANASY.  181 

sunshiny  or  foggy,  —  these  things  change  me  ; 
and  one  day  my  temperament  is  of  one  country, 
and  another  day  it  is  of  another.  It  is  manifold. 
I  have  in  me  a  Frenchman,  a  Dutchman,  and  a 
Spaniard,  a  German,  an  Italian,  and,  alas  !  an 
Otaheitan,  a  savage. 

MARHAM. 

No,  Oliver,  no. 

AUBIN. 

I  am  an  Egyptian,  a  Greek,  and  a  Roman.  I 
do  not  look  like  any  one  of  them  ;  but  that  is 
because  I  am  more  than  any  one  of  them  was. 
For  what  knowledge  the  priests  of  Egypt  made  a 
secret  of  would  be  nothing  subhme  to  me.  Nay, 
I  have  no  doubt  that  I  have  it,  —  though,  out  of 
all  my  treasures,  exactly  which  it  is  I  cannot 
say.  For  in  the  schools  at  Alexandria  all  the 
wisdom  of  the  Egyptians  must  have  been  known  ; 
and  out  of  those  schools  came  some  of  the  fa- 
thers of  the  Church,  and  many  of  those  ways  of 
thinking  and  feeling  that  began  to  obtain  among 
Christians  in  the  second  and  third  centuries.  For 
at  one  time  Alexandria  was  the  great  school,* 
the  famous  university,  of  the  whole  world.  The 
way  the  Egyptians  were  ready  to  view  the  Gospel 
has  .had  its  effect  on  the  Christianity  of  every 
nation  ;  and  still  it  has,  and  not  without  having 
caused  me  some  darkness,  and  so  made  me  sor- 
row, once. 


182  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Errors  are  so  lasting  in  the  world  !  It  makes 
one  almost  despair. 

AUBIN. 

Despair !  No,  uncle,  but  most  firmly  hope. 
For  then  surely  truth  must  be  immortal,  if,  by 
only  being  a  little  like  her,  falsehoods  can  live 
a  thousand  years.  And  truth  is  immortal  ;  and 
there  is  living  in  me  all  of  it  that  was  known  to 
those  who  were  solemn  among  the  sphinxes,  and 
thoughtful  in  the  vast  temples  of  Egypt.  On  one 
of  their  symbols  of  the  godhead  were  the  words, 
"  I  am  all  that  was,  that  is,  and  that  is  to  come  ; 
and  no  mortal  has  ever  unveiled  me  yet."  This 
was  at  Sais  ;  and  these  were  not  words  to  be 
seen  and  thought  of  for  hundreds  of  years  with- 
out many  a  person  becoming  the  readier  to  say, 
"  Show  us  the  Father,  and  it  sufRceth  us."  -And 
the  way  in  which  educated  Egyptians  were  readi- 
est to  view  the  Gospel  affected  their  understanding 
of  it,  and  so  also  the  interpretation  of  it  by  the 
Fathers,  who  were  of  the  Alexandrian  school, 
and  so  even  my  own  religion  a  little. 

MARHAM. 

The  Christian  religion  was  sadly  corrupted  by 
that  Alexandrian  philosophy  ;  though  I  think 
Christianity  would  have  had  a  very  much  worse 
history,  if,  in  the  second  and  third  centuries,  the 
preachers  of  it  had  been  Persian,  or  merely  Ro- 


EUTHANASY.  183 

man,  in  those  respects  in  which  they  were  Alex- 
andrian. But,  Oliver,  we  were  talking  about  the 
knowledge  of  human  nature. 

AUBIN. 

So  we  were,  uncle  ;  but  it  was  with  a  view  to 
seeing  that  in  no  age  or  nation  has  there  ever  been 
a  day  to  be  envied  by  us  for  its  brightness.  How- 
ever, uncle,  what  is  the  wisdom  that  comes  of 
much  experience  among  men  ?  Is  not  it  the  cer- 
tainty that  all  men  are  born  with  hearts  very  like 
one  another  ?  So  that  a  man  who  is  fit  to  rule 
knows  all  kingly  feehngs  without  his  going  up 
the  steps  of  a  throne,  and  sitting  down  with  a 
crown  on. 

MARHAM. 

Would  you  say,  then,  that  any  one  man  under- 
stands all  other  men  ?     Hardly,  Oliver,  that. 

AUBIN. 

For  that  is  what  can  be  said  only  of  "  the  first- 
born of  every  creature  "  ;  and  of  others  it  is  true 
according  as  they  are  more  or  less  Christian. 
What  I  mean  is,  that  if  two  men  are  equally 
acute  in  their  faculties,  and  have  had  the  same  ex- 
perience the  one  as  the  other,  they  may  still  dif- 
fer in  their  knowledge  of  human  nature  ;  and  if 
they  do,  it  will  be  because  the  one  is  more  Chris- 
tian than  the  other.  By  no  bad  man,  by  no  man 
conceited  or  in  any  way  affected,  is  the  soul  of 
man  to  be  known,  but  only  by  a  good  man,  a  man 


184  EUTHANASY. 

of  love  and  honesty  and  holiness,  and  who  has 
made  it  religion  to  himself  to  keep  simple  in  heart 
and  manners.  This  man  understands  the  good  ; 
and  he  knows  the  bad  better  than  they  know  one 
another. 

MARHAM. 

Then  would  you  affirm  that  Shakspeare  was  a 
good  man  ? 

AUBIN. 

No  saint,  but  a  good  man  he  was,  certainly. 
But  if  a  saint  he  had  been,  he  would  have  been  a 
poet  of  still  larger  spiritual  insight.  Sometimes 
I  fancy  that  I  can  feel  this  while  reading  his  plays. 
A  man  of  falsehood,  or  selfishness,  or  injustice, 
or  habitual  sensuality,  Shakspeare  never  can  have 
been.  Measured  by  the  common  height  of  prin- 
ciple among  men,  he  must  have  been  nobly 
minded.  And  this  I  believe  more  surely  than  if 
I  saw  it ;  for  he  might  have  deceived  my  eyes, 
but  through  his  writings  he  has  put  his  soul  in 
contact  with  my  moral  sense. 

MARHAM. 

And  is  there  nothing  in  him  offensive  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  there  is.  And  there  is  to  be  read 
what  is  offensive  in  regard  to  one  writer,  at  least, 
who  is  called  a  saint,  and  not  undeservedly.  In 
estimating  what  Shakspeare  was  in  himself,  what 
time  he  lived   in  must  be  remembered.     There 


EUTHANASY.  18i"i 

are  stains  on  his  pages,  but  they  are  of  his  age's 
making,  and  not  his  own.  And  we  should  not 
ourselves  have  noticed  them  if  we  had  been  of 
his  century  and  his  birthplace,  or  even  of  the 
court  of  Elizabeth. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  just  as  though  we  were  at  her  father's 
court,  and  at  other  times  as  though  we  were  along 
with  her  grandfather,  while  reading  some  of  Shak- 
speare's  plays. 

AUBIN. 

Yes  ;  we  Englishmen  have  transmigration  of 
souls  through  Shakspeare.  In  reading  him  I  am 
of  Athens,  and  I  am  Timon,  and  I  know  and 
scorn  what  hollowness  is  in  many  men  ;  then  I  lay 
down  the  book,  and  I  am  myself  again  ;  but  my 
soul  is  the  wiser  for  having  been  in  Timon 's  body 
and  lived  his  latter  life.  Another  time  I  am 
Hamlet,  and  sometimes  I  am  Romeo,  and  King 
John,  and  King  Lear,  and  Wolsey.  I  go  out  of 
one  man's  mind  into  another's,  into  a  wider, 
and  still  widening,  experience. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  in  Shakspeare  you  are  the  man  you  read 
of  for  the  time. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  you  are  the  hero,  and  the  saint,  and  the 
thinker,  while  reading  their  lives.  The  well- 
written  lives  of  great  men  are  things  to  thank  God 


186  EUTHANASY. 

for  ;  for  in  reading  first  one  and  then  another,  we 
learn  how  great  we  are  ourselves,  —  how  much 
there  is  in  us  that  is  unacted  and  unsaid,  for  want 
of  opportunity,  —  and  how  we  are,  all  of  us,  not 
so  much  living  in  this  world  as  getting  ready  to 
live. 

MARHAM. 

In  another  world. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  where  there  will  be  no  such  limits  on 
our  movements  as  are  about  us  now,  and  where 
there  will  be  no  fear  to  chill  us,  either  of  enemies 
or  friends,  or  to-morrow,  or  death. 

MARHAIVr. 

Thank  you,  Oliver  ;  for  I  like  what  you  have 
been  saying. 

AUB^f. 

Sometimes  thinking  of  myself  as  only  one  in  a 
thousand,  it  is  as  though  I  could  not,  in  the  eye 
of  God,  be  any  thing  ;  but  then  I  am  what  he 
will  care  for,  when  I  think  that  in  my  soul  there 
are  a  thousand  unacted  lives.  Because,  in  some 
few  moments  of  little  faith,  one  may  have  misgiv- 
ings for  one's  self ;  but  never  for  a  village  with  a 
thousand  inhabitants  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

And  you  may  say  this,  too,  that  one  soul  is  with 
the  Lord  as  a  thousand  souls,  and  a  thousand 
souls  as  one  soul. 


EUTHANASY.  187 

AUBIN. 

That  thought  is  like  a  lens,  uncle.  There 
shine  through  it  a  thousand  rays  of  light  from 
heaven.  And  it  brightens  with  looking  at.  Yes, 
it  does.  Sometimes,  when  I  have  thought  of 
myself  as  one  of  a  million  persons  all  unlike  one 
another,  I  have  felt,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  as 
though  I  were  lost,  and  nothing.  And  then,  again, 
I  have  had  faith  as  strong  as  that  of  a  multitude 
when  I  have  been  in  a  crowded  city,  and  have 
looked  up  to  heaven,  feeling  along  with  Words- 
worth 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  one  heart,  always  and  everywhere  ;  now 
in  our  European  civilization,  and  in  the  extinct 
spirit  of  ages  past. 

AUBIN. 

Extinct  spirit  of  past  ages  !  What  you  say 
chills  me,  uncle.  It  is  as  though  the  light  of  my 
own  spirit  might  be  put  out. 

MARHAM. 

No,  no  !  Your  soul,  Oliver,  is  not  to  be  worn 
away  by  time. 

AUBIN. 

Nor  is  the  spirit  of  Rome,  nor  that  of  Greece, 
nor  that  of  Egypt,  nor  that  of  the  Hebrews  ;  for 
what  are  those  on  your  shelves  ?  They  are  not 
bones  from  a  Greek    tomb  ;    they  are  the  very 


188  EUTHANASY. 

spirit  of  ancient  Greece  ;  they  are  what  was 
grandest  in  the  mind  and  to  the  judgment  of 
Plato,  and  Sophocles,  and 

MARHAM. 

Well,  in  a  library  here  and  there,  that  spirit 
lives. 

AUBIN. 

And  in  more  libraries  now  than  it  ever  did  in 
men  in  Greece. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  does.     But  in  the  world  it  does  not  live. 

AUBIN. 

The  whole  world  is  this  day  better  than  it 
would  have  been  if  Greece  had  not  been.  I 
need  not  tell  you  how  the  civilization  of  Greece 
widened  into  that  of  Rome,  and  so  over  the  whole 
world  ;  and  how  impossible  it  is  that  Grecian 
books  should  have  been  read  and  studied  for  ages 
by  the  best  minds,  without  the  minds  of  the  whole 
world  being  the  better.  In  the  spirit  of  ancient 
Greece,  the  great  characteristic  was  the  feeling  of 
the  beautiful.  Now  for  you  to  be  sure  that  the 
Greek  spirit  is  living  in  the  world  still,  I  need 
only  ask  you  to  think  what  the  history  of  art  has 
been.  Some  one  has  said  that  there  is  not  now  a 
sign-board  but  witnesses,  I  think,  that  Rubens 
was  a  painter.  And  it  is  still  truer  that  Greece 
is  living,  not  in  colleges  only,  but  in  every  town, 
and  is  to  be  felt  in  the  common  talk  of  men. 


EUTHANASY.  189 

And  in  our  laws,  and  in  half  the  words  we  speak, 
Rome  is  living  in  us  English  people. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  so,  Oliver  ;  it  is  so. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  is  Judaism  ;  for  in  some  things  we  are 
Jews,  and  rightly,  or  else  we  could  not  be  Chris- 
tians. For  Christ  came  not  to  destroy,  but  to 
fulfil  the  law  of  the  prophets.  Undestroyed,  they 
survive  still ;  at  least  the  use,  the  purpose,  of 
them  does.  Of  Jewish  opinions,  and  Grecian 
feeling,  and  Roman  manners,  it  is  none  of  the 
truth,  but  only  the  falsehood,  that  has  perished. 
All  the  truth  of  them  is  in  the  human  mind  now, 
and  is  everlasting.  And  myself,  I  am  of  Egypt, 
of  the  time  of  even  the  earlier  Pharaohs  ;  and  I 
am  more  than  an  Egyptian,  for  I  am  a  Greek; 
and  I  am  more  than  a  Greek,  for  I  am  a  Hebrew  ; 
and  I  am  more  than  a  Hebrew  of  the  Hebrews, 
for  I  am  a  Christian. 

MARHAM. 

I  like  your  idea,  Oliver,  very  much. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  what  makes  me  consciously  immortal.  I 
am  of  many  ages  past,  so  that  it  is  not  for  me  to 
fear  perishing  in  a  day.  And  on  my  very  death- 
day  I  only  can  seem  to  perish.  Before  the  world 
was,  God  had  me  in  his  mind  ;  and  with  being 
shut   out  of   his    mind   what  shall   frighten   me  ? 


190  EUTHANASY. 

Not  death.     For  not  a  sparrow  shall  fall  to  the 
ground  without  my  Father. 

MARHAM. 

What  a  saying  that  was  of  Christ's  !  It  filled 
the  woods  and  the  air  with  witnesses  of  Provi- 
dence. 

AUBIN. 

My  body  will  be  dust ;  but  desolation  and  ruin 
are  the  buildings  of  Athens,  yet  the  spirit  of 
Greece  lives  on,  as  I  myself  feel,  and  that  most 
blessedly  ;  for  so,  out  of  my  own  experience,  I 
can  trust  in  being  myself  immortal  when  disem- 
bodied. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  what  Greece  was  must  be  living  on  in  the 
human  mind  as  inspiration  and  unsuspected  wis- 
dom. But  in  ancient  statues,  and  in  the  engrav- 
ings of  Greek  ruins,  Greece  is  everywhere  pres- 
ent, so  as  to  be  looked  at.  Lycian  and  Xan- 
thian  marbles  have  been  brought  to  London  from 
amongst  bushes  and  trees  ;  and  not  by  chance,  I 
think,  —  no,  not  by  chance.  The  bringing  of 
Grecian  remains  to  England  seems,  under  Provi- 
dence, like  the  gathering  up  of  the  fragments  of 
ancient  civilization  for  nothing  to  be  lost. 

AUBIN. 

In  the  Campagna,  near  Rome,  the  shepherds 
live  in  old  tombs 


EUTHANASY.  191 

MARHAM. 

Horrible  lodgings  they  would  have  been  for  an 
old  Roman  ;  but  not  so  for  those  who  have  faith 
in  Christ. 

AUBIN. 

Ay,  and  with  our  larger  souls,  if  we  had  been 
Romans,  the  world  itself  would  have  felt  like  a 
tomb,  to  live  in  ;  and  the  earth  would  have  been 
to  us  a  mere  floor,  for  nations  to  be  laid  under. 
Life,  to  look  at,  is  mortality  from  moment  to 
moment  ;  but  it  is  not  so  to  us,  because  there  is 
plan,  there  is  purpose,  there  is  hope,  to  be  felt  in 
it.  And  there  is  not  a  thought  of  ancient  wis- 
dom  

MARHAM. 

Yes,  this  life  is  lit  up  with  the  manifest  pres- 
ence of  God  in  it,  for  those  the  eyes  of  whose 
understandings  are  not  blinded.  And  to  feel  the 
presence  of  God  is  to  feel  his  spirit  and  ours  for 
ever  related. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  SO,  dear  uncle.  And,  indeed,  for  a  Chris- 
tian, every  thing  human  is  suggestive  of  immortal- 
ity. The  kingly  form  of  David  has  been  vanish- 
ed from  this  world  thousands  of  years  ;  but  his 
psalms  are  here  still.  Many  a  noble  head  is  dust  ; 
but  what  thoughts  were  wrought  out  in  it  are 
alive  now,  and  will  be  for  ever.  As  long  as  a 
thought  has  such  immortality,  the  life  of  my  soul 
IS  not  a  matter  to  be  feared  for. 


192  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

For  our  souls  live  in  God  far  more  safely  than 
thoughts  in  the  mind  ;  because  in  him  there  is  no 
forgetfulness.  And  from  what  you  have  been 
saying,  I  think  this  :  that  if  the  Past  lives  on  in  us, 
we  may  well  hope  ourselves  to  live  on  in  God. 

AUBIN. 

On  account  of  our  souls,  we  might  perhaps 
have  feared  a  little,  if  what  was  good  in  Athens 
had  perished  ;  but  it  did  not.  The  old  ages  are 
gone  by,  but  the  spirit  even  of  them  did  not  go 
into  nothingness  ;  nor  will  my  soul,  then,  ever,  by 
any  likelihood.  In  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires 
there  is  Divine  purpose.  There  has  been  growth 
in  the  successive  forms  of  civilization,  in  the 
Greek  over  the  Egyptian,  in  the  Roman  over  the 
Greek,  and  in  Christian  Rome  over  Pagan  Rome, 
and  in  every  age  of  the  Christian  world  over  what 
has  been  before. 

MARHAM. 

O  Oliver  !  ours  has  been  the  midsummer  of 
the  world's  history,  to  live  in. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  in  us  and  about  us  what  is  the  sci- 
ence, the  wisdom,  the  religion,  and  the  worth  of 
all  the  centuries  since  Adam.  Yes,  in  my  char- 
acter there  are  the  effects  of  Paul's  journey  to 
Damascus,  and  of  the  meeting  of  King  John  and 
the  barons  at  Runny mede.      There  is  in  my  soul 


EUTHANASY.  193 

the  seriousness  of  the  many  conflicts,  and  famines, 
and  pestilences  of  early  English  times.  And  of 
my  enthusiasm,  some  of  the  warmth  is  from  fiery 
words  tliat  my  forefathers  thrilled  to,  in  the  times  of 
the  Commonwealth  and  the  Reformation.  There 
is  in  me  what  has  come  of  the  tenderness  with 
which  mothers  nursed  their  children  ages  ago,  and 
something  that  may  be  traced  to  the  resolute  talk 
of  Cromwell  and  his  cousin  Hampden  ;  and  there 
is  that  in  me  which  is  holy,  and  which  began  from 
a  forty  days'  fast  in  a  wilderness  in  Judea,  now 
eighteen  hundred  years  since. 

MARHAM. 

In  a  sense,  all  the  ages  that  have  ever  been  are 
now  ;  they  are  with  us  now. 

AUBIN. 

The  Past,  the  infinite  Past  !  My  soul  was 
born  of  it,  and  I  am  spirit  of  its  spirit.  O,  as  I 
look  back  at  the  Past,  and  think  what  it  is  to  me, 
I  feel  as  Apollo  did  as  he  gazed  upon  Mnemo- 
syne, and  said,  — 

Mute  thou  remainest  —  Mute  !     Yet  I  can  read 
A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face ; 
Knowledge  enormous  makes  a  God  of  me. 
Names,  deeds,  gray  legends,  dire  events,  rebellions, 
Majesties,  sovran  voices,  agonies, 
Creations  and  destroyings,  all  at  once 
Pour  into  the  wide  hollows  of  my  brain, 
And  deify  me,  as  if  some  blithe  wine 
Or  bright  elixir  peerless  I  had  drunk, 
And  so  become  immortal. 
13 


194 


EUTHANASY. 


O,  the  way  of  my  souPs  growth  argues  eternity 
for  her  life  !  The  Past  !  — as  I  think  of  it,  and 
how  wonderfully  I  was  born  of  it,  I  do  feel  in  me 
a  something  infinite,  that  persuades  me  of  my  im- 
mortality. Thou  glorious  Past,  thou  suffering 
Past,  thou  dear,  dear  Past ! 

I  can  read 
A  wondrous  lesson  in  thy  silent  face. 

MARHAM. 

It  seemed  to  die  every  day,  but  it  did  not.  And 
we  men,  —  we  seem  to  die,  but  we  do  not.  It  is 
only  to  one  another  that  we  die ;  for  we  do  not  to 
God,  nor  to  the  angels. 

AUBIN. 

God  !  this  life  of  ours  is  much  too  wonderful 
to  be  despaired  of,  even  at  its  end. 

MARHAM. 

And  through  Christ,  that  end  has  itself  become 
so  hopeful,  —  so  divinely  hopeful  ! 


EUTHANASY.  195 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


A  trance  of  high  and  solemn  bliss 

From  purest  ether  came  ; 
'Mid  such  a  heavenly  scene  as  this, 

Death  is  an  empty  name.  —  John  Wilson. 


MARHAlVi. 

A  DELIGHTFUL  day,  is  not  it,  Oliver  .-' 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  But  how  calm  it  is.  It  is  so 
profoundly  quiet.  A  blessed  day  it  is  ;  and  the 
great  peace  of  it  reaches  into  the  soul. 

MARHAM. 

It  does  ;  and  it  feels  hke  the  peace  of  God  ; 
and  so  it  must  be,  in  some  way  ;  for  a  troubled 
spirit  never  feels  this  calmness  of  nature. 

AUBIN. 

That  is  true  ;  and,  uncle,  I  would  widen  what 
you  have  said,  and  say,  that  when  the  soul  is 
most  nearly  what  it  ought  to  be,  it  is  then  fullest 
of  faith  in  what  it  will  be.  When  we  are  most 
heavenly  in  temper,  we  are  in  belief  surest  of  be- 
ing immortal.  Our  highest  moods  are  higher  than 
any  fling  of  death's  dart. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  the  goodness  of  God  that  exempts  our 


196  EUTHANASY. 

best  experiences  from  the  taint  of  the  charnel- 
house.  But  you  seem  as  though  you  had  anoth- 
er explanation,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  I  have  not.  The  mind  is  like  a 
harp,  in  which  many'strings  thrill,  on  one  being 
struck  ;  and  the  feeling  of  the  beautiful  and  that 
of  the  infinite  are  nigh  one  another.  What  I  mean 
is,  that  beauty  is  to  the  feeling  as  though  it  were 
everlasting. 

MARHAM. 

Evanescent,  surely,  Oliver.  For  of  all  beauty 
there  is  one  emblem,  — the  grass,  which  is  in  the 
field  to-day,  and  to-morrow  in  the  oven. 

AUBIN. 

Trees  please  me  much  to  look  at,  and  walk 
amongst,  and  sit  under.  But  that  they  will  rot 
and  fall  never  troubles  me. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  because  most  trees  are  as  long-lived 
as  we  men,  and  some  are  a  hundred  times  longer. 
But  over  and  over  again  we  see  the  flowers  fade. 
And  the  more  we  like  them,  the  more  decaying 
this  world  must  feel. 

AUBIN. 

No  ;  but  the  fresher  and  the  newer.  For  do 
not  the  flowers,  when  they  have  gone  out  of  blos- 
som, come  into  it  again  ?  What  decays  in  flow- 
ers is  the  pulp,  which  is  not  what  you  care  for  ; 


EUTHANASY.  19^ 

but  the  beauty  in  them,  that  you  love,  never  per- 
ishes, and  every  year  it  is  fresh  to  look  at.  O, 
to  me  flowers  are  words  about  a  life  more  spirit- 
ual than  is  plainly  to  be  signified  in  this  earth  by 
things  springing  out  of  it  ! 

MARHAIVI. 

And  they  so  frail  ! 

AUBIN. 

When  Jesus  spoke,  his  words  thrilled  on  the 
air  a  very  short  time  ;  and  yet  there  was  an  ever- 
lastingness  in  them,  which  an  angel  would  have 
known  at  once. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  what  the  Pharisees  thought  was  only  gen- 
tle breath  did  oudive  their  boasted  temple,  as 
some  of  them  lived  to  know  ;  and  will  survive  the 
very  earth,  as  we  live  late  enough  to  be  sure  of. 
In  Galilee  and  in  Jewry,  many  centuries  ago, 
there  were  low  sounds  on  the  air  for  little  spaces 
of  time ;  but  there  were  ears  through  which  they 
proved  to  be  doctrines,  and  revolutions,  and  the 
coming  of  the  kingdom  of  God  on  the  earth. 
Things  are  not  always  what  they  seem,  even  to 
all  men. 

AUBIN. 

So  much  depends  on  the  way  of  regarding 
them.  And  so  what  are  emblems  of  decay  to 
some  men  are  to  me  suggestive  of  eternity  and 
youth.      Sometimes,   in  looking  at  a   flower,  my 


198  EUTHANASY." 

mind  is  drawn  into  a  mood  that  is  like  a  firm  per- 
suasion of  immortality,  it  is  so  largely  thoughtful 
and  full  of  peace.  That  word  which  was  made 
flesh  is  the  greatest  word  that  God  has  spoken  to 
the  children  of  men  ;  and  there  are  many  ways  in 
which  he  never  leaves  himself  without  witness  in 
the  world  ;  and  I  like  to  think  that  flowers  were 
meant  to  be  what  I  feel  them,  —  the  undertones 
of  encouragement,  in  which  the  Creator  speaks  to 
us  creatures,  in  a  world  in  which  sometimes  the 
thunder  is  his  voice,  and  fire  and  hail  and  stormy 
winds  the  fulfilment  of  his  word. 

MARHAM. 

Once  1  had  been  gazing  up  at  a  very  high  rock, 
for  some  time,  in  awe  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  it,  1  re- 
member the  pleasure,  almost  the  relief,  it  was  to 
me  to  notice  and  examine  a  little  pimpernel ;  for 
that  I  think  it  was.  It  rested  my  strained  eye- 
sight and  overwrought  feelings. 

AUBIN. 

And  did  not  it  rest  your  spirit,  to  see  that 
Providence,  in  its  works,  is  infinitely  minute,  as 
well  as  awfully  vast  ?  For  that  is  no  small  com- 
fort to  know.  I  think  the  discoveries  of  the  tel- 
escope would  have  been  dreadful,  but  for  the  mi- 
croscope. God's  throne  has  risen  above  this 
earth  inconceivably  high  ;  but,  another  way,  the 
Divine  condescension  is  to  be  seen  reaching  un- 
expectedly and  infinitely  low.     In  a  field,  or  on 


EUTHANASY.  199 

the  side  of  a  brook,  when  I  see  a  forget-me-not, 
I  think  to  myself,  He  has  not  forgotten  even  thee. 

MARHAM. 

In  a  writer  of  the  fifteenth  century,  I  remember 
that  there  is  a  passage  in  which  he  says  that  the 
universe  is  the  handwriting  of  God,  and  all  ob- 
jects are  words  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

And  very  significant  words  some  of  them  are. 
At  the  end  of  winter,  the  snowdrop  comes  out 
of  the  ground  quietly,  and  like  a  word  that  is  ex- 
pected, and  renews  the  promise,  that  seed-time 
shall  not  fail.  And  in  autumn,  the  ears  of  corn, 
yellow,  and  bending  heavily  on  the  stalk,  are 
themselves  the  certainty  that  harvest  shall  not 
cease. 

MARHAM. 

Our  Lord  says,  "Consider  the  lilies  of  the 
field."  And  no  doubt  there  is  more  in  a  lily 
than  has  been  considered  yet,  and  very  much 
more  than  colors  and  leaves.  To  most  men, 
there  is  in  the  stalk  only  sap  ;  but  there  is  really 
in  it  the  presence  of  God  every  moment,  arraying 
the  plant  in  glory. 

AUBIN. 

And  that  is  blessedness  to  know  ;  for  with 
every  feeling  of  that  truth,  God  is  felt  in  our- 
selves, and  the  feeling  of  God  is  that  of  our  im- 
mortality. 


200 


MARHAM. 

Yes,  in  our  minds  any  thought  of  God  may  be 
almighty  in  its  effects. 

AUBIN. 

I  have  God  to  beheve  in,  and  so  I  am  immor- 
tal. Sometimes  I  feel  thjs,  O,  so  strongly  !  and 
then  at  other  times  there  is  no  meaning  in  it. 
And  sometimes  I  am  made  conscious  of  my  im- 
mortal nature  by  such  beauty  as  comes  and  goes 
in  a  moment, — summer  lightning,  a  shadow's 
passing  over  a  sunlit  valley,  the  smile  of  a  wo- 
man   

MARHAM. 

Oliver  ! 

AUBIN. 

It  is  so,  uncle.  In  the  feeling  of  beauty  there 
is  no  taint  of  decay  or  death. 

MARHAM. 

A  painting  is  colored  canvas,  and  an  engraving 
is  paper  printed  on  ;  and  both  are  very  perish- 
able. 

AUBIN. 

So  they  are,  and  so  are  the  leaves  of  the  Bi- 
ble ;  but  the  Gospel  is  not. 

MARHAM. 

But  the  Gospel  is  not  in  the  ink  and  paper,  but 
in  the  meaning  made  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 

AUBIN. 

And  in  art  beautiful  objects  are  things  by  which 


EUTHANASY.  201 

souls  understand  one  another.  There  is  York 
Minster.  I  look  at  its  western  front,  —  I  go 
through  the  door,  and  up  the  nave,  and  into  the 
choir,  and  up  to  the  east  window.  And  round  my 
head  I  am  conscious,  as  it  were,  of  the  suhlimily 
of  the  stars,  and  under  my  feet  the  floor  feels  as 
though  it  were  low,  very  low,  down  in  the  earth. 
1  experience  what  the  builder  meant,  —  how  hu- 
mility is  the  basis  of  that  character  which  has 
glory  for  its  crown.  I  return  down  the  aisle  in  the 
spirit  of  the  place,  and  I  feel  that,  while  walking 
humbly  with  God,  there  is  heaven  above  a  man 
very  soon  about  to  open.  I  understand  by  York 
Minster  what  the  man  who  built  it  wished. 

MARHAM. 

That  Minster  is  a  noble  thought  made  mto 
stone,  and  he  who  feels  it  does  feel  what  was 
the  mind  of  a  Christian  artist  five  hundred  years 
since. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  this  earth  is  a  thought  of  God's,  and 
to  know  and  feel  what  it  is  is  to  understand  some- 
thing of  the  mind  of  God.  Now  to  me,  uncle, 
the  loveliness  of  this  scene  from  the  window  is 
like  the  smile  of  Almightiness.  It  feels  so,  and 
it  is  so.  S.ee  under  that  tree  how  the  shadows 
play  !     O,  how  very,  very  beautiful  it  is  ! 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  it  is  pretty,  very. 


202  EUTHANASY.  0 

AT7BIN. 

Pretty  !  It  is  beautiful.  Yes  !  and  there  is 
that  to  be  felt  in  it  that  is  like  learning  the  mind 
of  God,  and  finding  it  to  be  love,  infinite  love. 

MAKHAM. 

Trees  and  flowers,  turf,  ground  a  little  undu- 
lated, and  yonder  a  brook  ;  that  is  what  you  see, 
Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

A  little  earth  shaped  into  a  pair  of  cheeks,  and 
pinched  into  a  nose,  and  made  into  lips,  chin,  and 
forehead,  and  with  some  humors  mixed  together 
for  eyes,  —  these  are  a  face.  But  though  only 
clay,  yet  they  are  expressive  of  faith,  hope,  and 
love,  despair  and  hatred,  and  every  passion. 

MARHAM. 

And  every  degree  of  every  passion  ;  the  face 
is  so  wonderfully  expressive  of  the  mind  within. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  is  nature  of  what  is  Divine  within  it. 
This  morning  I  sat  alone  in  the  garden  ;  and  all 
about  me  things  looked  so  lovely,  so  imbued  with 
spirit,  that  I  felt  myself  circled  with  love  and 
beauty  ;  and  my  soul  within  me  yearned  like  a 
child  in  its  mother's  arms. 

MARHAM. 

I  saw  you,  and  I  was  coming  to  you,  but  I 
fancied  your  thoughts  were  making  you  good 
company. 


EUTHANASY.  2Q3 

AUBIN. 

What  Godhead  is  in  nature  I  feel  about  me, 
though  not  familiarly,  but  with  something  of  awe 
and  distance  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

But  is  not  it  the  mind  itself  which  colors  the 
earth  with  meaning  ?  for  it  is  not  always,  nor  to 
many  men,  that  nature  is  what  you  speak  of. 

AUBIN. 

Because  we  are  not  always,  nor  often,  in  our 
best  moods  ;  and  they  are  our  best  that  are  our 
truest.  If  you  had  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  I^ast 
Supper  in  this  library,  how  often  would  you  ex- 
perience the  spirit  of  it  ?  Not  every  moment 
you  were  here,  nor  every  day,  nor  rightly  even 
every  week,  perhaps,  but  only  in  some  more  ex- 
alted seasons. 

MARHAM. 

True  ;  and  what  we  felt  at  our  best  would  be 
most  nearly  what  the  painter  meant. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  the  same  with  the  meaning  that  comes 
out  in  a  landscape,  or  in  any  view  of  nature,  in 
our  best  moments.  Now  this  morning,  as  I  sat 
under  the  tree, —indeed  always,  when  my  soul 
is  in  sympathy  with  nature,  my  feeling  is  that  of  a 
joyful  recognition  of  God.  It  is  as  though  out 
of  some  infinite  distance  the  face  of  the  Father 
Almighty  were  becoming  visible,  smiling  upon  me 
in  encouragement  and  love. 


204  EUTHANASY.  q 

MARHAM. 

And  do  not  you  feel  that  the  tnith  of  all  truth 
is  God,  and  that  the  goodness  of  all  good  things 
is  God,  and  that  God  is  the  inspiration  of  all  ex- 
cellence, and  that  every  good  and  perfect  gift  is 
from  above  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  And  so  in  reading  a  good  book, 
the  truth  and  beauty  of  it  are  witnesses  to  me  of 
my  relationship  to  God,  as  his  child.  What  is 
true  to  my  mind  is  true  to  God  ;  and  what  is 
goodness  to  my  feeling  is  good  in  the  eye  of  God. 
But  how  do  I  know  this  .''  By  inward  feeling.  I 
am  strongly  persuaded  of  it  from  within  myself. 
But  it  is  from  what  is  outside  me,  as  well  as  by 
inward  feeling,  that  1  know  that  what  is  beautiful 
with  me  is  beautiful  with  God  ;  I  know  it  by  what 
God  has  made. 

MARHAM. 

And  God  made  the  human  soul,  and  he  pro- 
portioned its  feelings  like  the  strings  of  a  harp  ; 
and  in  its  better  and  believing  seasons  the  music 
it  makes  is  what  the  Father  of  spirits  listens  to  and 
loves. 

AUBIN. 

That  is  blessedly  certain. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  hearts  of  litde  children  there  is  many  a 
feeling,  the  strain  of  which  their  angels  do  often 


EUTHANASY.  205 

hymn  before  the  face  of  their  Father  which  is  in 
heaven.  And  in  silent  chambers  there  are  those 
whose  thoughts  at  night  are  like  organ-music  in 
the  ear  of  God,  they  are  so  beautiful,  and  great, 
and  solemn  ;  though,  as  being  pure  worship  of  the 
spirit,  they  must  be  more  acceptable  to  him,  in- 
finitely, than  any  music  made  with  hands. 

AUBIN. 

The  knowledge  of  every  such  man  is  very  dear. 
Because  over  every  one  out  of  whose  heart  the 
Spirit  cries,  ''  Father  !  Father  !  "  Christian  faith 
hears  the  voice  of  God  making  answer,  ''  My 
son  !  ray  son  !  " 

MARHAM. 

I  like  what  you  say,  OHver. 

AUBIN. 

I  was  thinking  of  you,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I  only  wish,  —  but 

AUBIN. 

And  that  I  was  thinking  rightly,  I  know  by  the 
calm  effect  your  company  has  on  my  mind. 

MARHAM. 

You  were  going  to  speak  about  the  spiritual 
witness  there  is  in  the  beauty  of  nature. 

AUBIN. 

When  tree,  or  river,  or  rock  shows  beauty,  and 
my  soul  answers  to  it,  it  is  as  though  the  spirit  of 
nature  said,  "  We  understand  one  another  ;  and  so 


206  EG THAN AST. 

ih Jii  art  mine  and  I  am  thine."  And  then  every 
thing  in  nature  feels  dear  ;  and  death,  if  not  very 
dear,  feels  beautiful,  and  worthy  of  in6nite  trust. 

MARHAM. 

Always  may  we  feel  it  so  ! 

AUBIN. 

Summer  and  winter,  sunshine  and  darkness, 
rolling  seas  and  high  mountains,  —  unlike  oile 
another  though  they  are,  there  is  that  in  me  that 
is  like  them  all.  They  are  witnesses  to  me  of 
myself.  For  the  beauty  of  each  one  of  them  I 
feel,  and  the  spirit  that  is  in  them  all  I  am  akin 
to.  If  only  flowers,  or  only  trees,  or  only  some 
one  class  of  objects  in  nature,  were  beautiful  to 
us,  then  their  perishing  might  infect  us  with  mor- 
tal fears.  But  now  all  things  are  made  beautiful 
to  us  in  their  time  ;  all  things  of  God's  making 
are.  And  the  feeling  of  this  is  fellow-feeling 
with  God.  And  in  any  thing,  but  very  strongly 
in  all  great  things,  fellow-feehng  with  Gpd  is  per- 
suaded of  co-eternily  with  him.  Now  at  the  view 
from  this  window  I  can  look  and  look  till  I  feel 
inwardly  immortal. 

MARHAM. 

I  cannot  say  that  I  have  ever  felt  it  much  my- 
self, but  from  the  temples  and  the  religious  history 
of  all  ages  T  should  suppose  that  there  is  a  state 
of  mind  in  which  beauty  is  to  be  felt  like  a  Divine 
presence. 


EUTHANASY.  W7 

AUBIN. 

Beauty  in  nature,  and  as  felt  by  a  Christian 
spirit,  —  this  is  what  I  think  is  a  manifestation  of 
God.  Uncle,  look  at  the  garden  ;  see  the  flow- 
ers, and  the  apple-trees,  and  the  lilacs  in  blossom. 
And  in  the  field  beyond  how  white  the  hawthorn 
is  !  And  then  there  are  the  poplars,  so  leafy  and 
straight,  and  as  though  standing  against  the  sky 
behind.  Now  does  not  the  sight  of  a  scene  like 
this  make  in  the  mind  the  peace  of  God  ?  And 
this  peaceful  feeling  must  be  God's  meaning,  and 
not  mere  chance  in  us. 

MARHAM. 

But  may  it  not  be  mere  contentment  of  the 
soul,  and  not  what  is  any  way  a  promise  of  an 
hereafter  ? 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle  ;  I  think  not.  And  that  is  nearly  all 
I  can  answer  you.  O,  yes,  there  is  something 
that  occurs  to  me  !  If  in  our  souls  there  were  no 
feeling  of  infinity,  mountains  would  not  be  sub- 
lime to  us  ;  they  would  only  be  craggy  steeps, 
and  no  more  to  us  than  to  the  goat  and  the  cha- 
mois. 

MARHAM. 

And  that  something  of  the  infinite  which  there 
is  in  the  soul  betokens  a  higher  relationship  than 
what  the  grave  can  close  on. 


208  EUTHANASY.     , 

AUBIN. 

The  mountains  make  in  us  a  feeling  sublimer 
than  of  what  they  are  themselves.  But  they  are 
what  they  are  to  us,  because  there  is  that  in  our 
nature  through  which  height  beyond  height  might 
rise  before  us  in  the  universe,  and  so  our  souls 
grow  grander  and  more  solemn  ;  but  only  to  feel 
more  grandly  and  more  solemnly  at  further  higher 
sights,  for  ever. 

MARHAM. 

What  there  is  of  infinity  in  our  souls  does  lay 
hold  of  the  gates  of  heaven  for  us. 

AUBIN. 

While  we  have  been  in  valleys,  and  on  moun 
tains,  and  the  banks  of  rivers,  what  feelings  have 
grown  in  us  in  this  England  of  ours  will  be  the 
beginnings  of  our  delight  in  the  fields  of  heaven. 
Sometimes,  at  the  sight  of  a  subHme  scene,  or  a 
beautiful  landscape,  or  a  glorious  sunset,  first  my 
feeling  is  delight,  next  it  is  worship,  and  then  it  is 
a  presentiment  of  heaven  ;  for  1  think  to  myself 
that  this  earth,  at  its  loveliest,  is  hardly  even  the 
forecourt  of  the  temple.  And  certainly,  than 
this  it  is  no  nigher  to  himself  that  God  has  ad- 
mitted us  earthly  worshippers.  But  though  not 
called  so,  death  is  that  Beautiful  gate  through 
which  we  shall  pass  on  into  the  temple,  and  to- 
wards the  Holy  of  holies,  where  the  pure  in  heart 
are  blest  with  the  sight  of  God. 


EUTHANASY.  20Q 


CHAPTER   XX. 

A  Healer,  a  Redeemer  came, 

A  Son  of  Man,  with  love  and  power; 

And  an  all-ani  mated  flame 

He  kindled  in  our  inmost  soul. 

Then  first  we  saw  the  heavens  unfold ; 

They  seemed  an  ancient  father-land  : 

And  now  we  could  believe  and  hope, 

And  feel  we  were  akin  to  God.  —  Novalis. 

MARHAM. 

You  have  been  looking  at  your  watch  these 
five  minutes.     What  do  you  see,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

More  than  I  can  speak  of ;  and  I  hear  more 
than  I  can  tell  of  well.  Tick,  tick,  tick  !  Gone, 
gone,  gone  !  As  fast  as  this  watch  goes,  men 
die,  —  a  man  a  moment. 

MARHAM. 

Is  it  so  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  very  nearly. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  it  is  a  thing  to  think  of.     And  the  more 
one  thinks,  the  faster  time  seems  to  go  ;  and  fast- 
er and  faster  it  seems  as  though  men  were  dying. 
,  As  one  listens,  it  is  as  though  the  watch  were 
14 


210  EUTHANASY.    ^ 

saying  all  manner  of  warnings,  —  now  then,  now 
then  !  —  thy  turn,  thy  turn  !  —  't  will  be,  't  will 
be  !  And  so  it  will  be  ;  and  God  knows  how 
soon. 

AUBIN. 

And  only  he  knows  the  witness  this  watch 
might  witness  about  me,  for  I  have  forgotten  my- 
self ;  or  rather,  my  Brain  has,  for  my  spirit  has 
not,  because  it  will  be  all  surviving  in  me  here- 
after. Round  the  face  of  this  watch,  every  min- 
ute-mark has  been  the  date  of  some  impulse  I 
have  felt  and  followed,  right  or  wrong,  and  that  I 
shall  remember  hereafter,  and,  as  I  trust,  when  I 
am  in  glory  ;  and  every  such  recollection  will 
make  me  feel  myself  then,  more  and  more  devout- 
ly, a  miracle  of  grace.  And  that  will  soon  be, 
perhaps.  On,  on,  on  !  says  the  watch  ;  on,  on, 
on  !  And  on  it  goes,  and  on  time  goes,  and  on 
the  world  goes.  Tick,  tick,  tick  !  And  only 
with  this,  Venus  is  a  hundred  miles  farther  away  ; 
and  it  is  another  part  of  the  sun  that  shines  on 
Mercury  ;  and  girdled  about  with  rings,  and  cir- 
cled about  with  moons,  Saturn  is  not  where  he 
was  ;  and  perhaps  out  of  a  million  stars,  there  is 
not  one  but  has  changed  its  place.  *  And  all  with 
less  noise  than  the  going  of  this  watch,  and  with 
less  effort,  perhaps  ;  and,  indeed,  certainly  ;  for 
with  Almightiness  there  cannot  be  any  effort  at  all. 
I  do  not  discern  it,  for  T  am  in  the  flesh  ;  but  on 


EUTHANASY.  211 

the  face  of  my  watch,  here,  among  these  twelve, 
one  will  be  the  hour  of  my  death  ,  and  there  is  a 
minute  here  that  will  be  my  last  breath.  This 
finger  moves  on  slowly  and  surely,  and  over  the 
whole  face  it  will  turn,  and  many  a  time,  per- 
haps ;  but  for  all  that,  like  a  finger  along  the  lines 
of  a  death-warrant,  it  is  moving  on  to  point  the 
time  of  my  departure  hence.  And  the  next  min- 
ute afterwards  some  one  will  take  up  this  very 
watch,  perhaps,  and  remark  to  himself  the  hour 
and  the  minute  of  my  death.  But  the  very  mo- 
ment that  I  breathe  out  my  last  breath,  somebody 
will  draw  his  last.  And  before  it  will  be  well 
known  that  I  am  dead,  quite  a  company  of  spirits 
will  have  come  forth  with  me  out  of  this  earthly 
life.  And  then  where  shall  we  find  ourselves,  — 
ay,  where  ?  Day  and  night,  summer  and  winter, 
life  and  death,  —  these  our  planetary  changes  will 
be  over.  But  if  we  shall  have  done  with  this 
earth,  shall  we  have  done  with  our  planetary  sys- 
tem ?  But  why  not  ?  for  shall  we  not  have  al- 
ready learned  the  great  starry  lesson  ?  and  are 
there  not  some  human  minds  in  which  the  mate- 
rial system  exists  almost  as  clearly  as  it  does  In 
the  eye  of  God, — both  the  stars  in  their  move- 
ments, and  the  earth  in  whaj;  it  is  ?  Such  knowl- 
edge has  God  allowed  us,  and  it  is  very  won- 
derful. 


212  EUTHANASY.     ^ 

MARHAM. 

In  the  heathen  it  would  be  ;  but  it  is  not  in  us 
Christians,  to  whom  he  has  given  the  knowledge 
of  his  Son. 

AUBIN. 

Right,  uncle.  For  that  knowledge  is  deeper, 
and  higher,  and  wider,  and  more  enduring,  and  of 
quite  another  nature,  than  what  is  got  through  the 
telescope,  and  perfected  by  mathematics  ;  for,  in- 
deed, it  is  infinite. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  a  sound  thought,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

The  stars  differ  from  one  another  in  size,  and 
some  of  them  in  color  ;  and  what  any  one  of  them 
might  be  to  visit,  there  is  no  knowing.  But  I 
think  they  are  an  unlikely  home,  any  one  of  them, 
for  us  Christians,  on  whom  the  ends  of  the  world 
have  come,  as  some  Apostle  expresses  it. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  a  thing  I  never  thought  of ;  but  why  un- 
likely .? 

AUBIN. 

Unlikely  is  perhaps  too  strong  a  word.  And 
it  is  possible,  before  being  free  of  the  universe, 
that  we  may  be  surnounded  awhile  with  "  the 
bands  of  Orion,"  or  be  bound  within  "  the  sweet 
influences  of  the  Pleiades."  But  why  should 
we  ?     For  it  is  likely  that  their  starry  elements 


EUTHANASY.  213 

are  not  very  different  from  these  of  our  earth. 
And  this  of  our  earth  is  a  way  of  life  we  are  ex- 
perienced in  now  ;  though  many  die  out  of  the 
earth,  knowing  little  or  nothing  of  it.  Then  how 
many  thousand  nights  we  have  seen  the  stars,  and 
seen  them  with  bright  eyes,  and  with  tearful  eyes, 
and  in  every  mood,  so  that,  perhaps,  there  is 
nothing  new  to  be  felt  in  their  sight  !  But  of  that 
one  cannot  be  sure  ;  for  they  may  wear  quite 
another  look  in  the  sight  of  creatures  redeemed, 
immortal,  and  crowned,  to  what  they  do  in  eyes 
that  have  weariness,  and  passion,  and  tears  in  them. 

MARHAM. 

And  dimness  and  watchings,  an  older  man  would 
add.  But,  says  the  Scripture,  there  remaineth  a 
rest. 

AUBIN. 

Now  blessed  be  Paul  for  that  one  word,  —  rest. 
It  makes  one  feel  like  a  child  in  the  evening  of  a 
summer's  day,  and  it  makes  one's  death-bed  as 
soft  to  think  of  as  going  to  sleep.  Rest,  rest  I 
Is  not  the  sound  of  the  word  so  soothing  ?  It 
will  be  a  world  of  rest ;  and  so  it  will  hardly  be 
a  world  like  this  earth,  with  clouds  driving  over 
it,  and  with  seas  in  it  ebbing  and  flowing,  and 
never  still,  and  with  winds  rismg  and  falling,  and 
blowing  now  one  way  and  now  another. 

MARHAM. 

Green  pastures  are  what  David 


•A 
214  EUTHANASY. 


AUBIN. 

Many  objects  in  this  earth  are  what  things  in 
heaven  will  be  like.  Meadows  we  shall  lie  down 
in  ;  and  there  will  be  in  our  ears  the  murmur  of 
the  river  of  water  of  life  ;  and  over  us  there  will 
be  a  tree  of  life,  and  through  the  leaves  of  it, 
some  rays  of  the  light  of  God  will  shine  upon  us 
in  that  blessed  shade ;  and  we  shall  eat  of  the 
fruit  of  the  tree,  because  it  is  for  the  healing  of 
the  nations  :  and  just  at  first  we  shall  not  venture 
to  look  into  the  full  glory  beyond,  for  we  shall  be 
only  fresh  out  of  the  darkness  of  this  earth. 

MARHAM. 

And  God  will  be  all  and  in  all,  and 

AUBIN. 

All  and  in  all !  He  will  be  in  the  river  of  life, 
flowing  alongside  us  ;  and  he  will  be  in  the  tree 
that  shades  us,  and  in  the  light  that  shines  through 
it ;  and  he  will  be  in  us,  ourselves.  He  will  be 
everlasting  growth  of  spirit  in  us,  and  he  will  be 
peace  and  joy.  Ay,  there  will  be  then  one  soul 
of  joy  in  us  and  in  God.  We  in  him,  he  will  be 
in  us.  We  shall  be  nerves  in  his  infinite  blessed- 
ness, and  for  ever  be  thrilled  with  delight.  And, 
perhaps,  what  is  done  divinely  on  one  side  of 
heaven  will  gladden  us  on  the  other ;  for  we 
shall  be  in  God,  and  God  will  be  then,  as  he  is 
now,  glad  in  all  things.  Ay,  this,  —  this  is  the 
thing  to  think  of.     God  in  us,  and  we  in  God,  — 


EUTHANASY.  215 

this  one  certainty  of  what  heaven  will  be  is 
enough  for  us.  For  of  the  manner  of  the  future 
life  we  do  know  nothing.  There  is  nothing  told 
us.  Perhaps  there  could  not  be.  And,  indeed, 
why  should  it  be  told  us  how  we  are  to  live  the 
first  instant  after  death,  any  more  than  what  fresh 
experiences  we  shall  have  age  after  age  in  eter- 
nity ?  Sufficient  for  our  day  is  the  light  we  have  ; 
and  to-morrow,  if  we  have  things  to  do  not  of  this 
earth,  then  we  shall  be  lighted  for  our  work  in 
another  way  than  we  are  now. 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  if  we  would  only  walk  by  what  light  we 
have,  instead  of  standing  still  to  wonder  how  it 
shines,  and  whether  we  might  not  have  had  much 
more  of  it  than  what  we  have  !  In  all  things  it 
seems  to  be  a  rule,  that  we  should  have  no  great- 
er light  than  what  we  can  use,  and  ought  to  use. 
I  suppose  it  is  for  knowledge  always  to  feel  the 
same  as  duty. 

AUBIN. 

Yonder  shines  the  sun,  looking  as  though  he 
were  only  the  light  of  our  sky,  and  not  as  though 
he  were  to  be  seen  in  ten  or  twelve  other  firma- 
ments. It  is  all  as  though  he  rose  in  our  east, 
and  went  round  our  sky,  and  down  in  our  west. 
And  the  look  of  it  quite  agrees  with  what  our 
state  is.  For  we  are  only  dwellers  of  iliis  earth, 
and  not  creatures  of  the  solar  svstem.      What  du- 


216  .  EDTHANASY.  ' 

ties  am  I  made  to  owe  in  Jupiter,  or  Mars,  or 
any  of  the  other  planets,  that  my  eyes  should 
have  been  fashioned  in  such  a  way  as  for  me  to 
see  at  a  glance  what  look  the  sun  has  as  he 
shines  in  their  skies  ?  No  doubt,  astronomy  has 
proved  profitable  knowledge  ;  but  it  is  not  holi- 
ness. Why  the  sun  shines  for  us  is  to  hght  us  to 
our  duties,  which  are  all  to  be  done  on  this  earth. 
Hereafter,  there  may  be  purposes  for  which  we 
shall  see  the  sun  shining  in  another  way  than  he 
does  to  us  now.  Ay,  and- does  not  this  suggest 
how  God  will  grow  for  ever  on  our  gaze  ?  O, 
many  are  the  thoughts  about  him,  and  many  are 
the  ways  of  feeling  towards  him,  that  are  withheld 
from  us  as  yet ;  because,  though  he  is  in  himself 
from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  still,  to  our  experi 
ence,  he  is  no  more  than  the  Father  of  our  as  yet 
earthly  spirits.  Let  our  thoughts  be  as  familiar 
only  with  a  few  ages  as  they  are  now  with  years  ; 
let  us  see  another  world  or  two  beside  this  earth, 
and  sympathize  with  some  forms  of  spiritual  life, 
and  know  a  few  of  the  truths  that  shape  into  ex- 
istence in  seraphs'  minds  ;  —  and  all  this  let  us 
learn,  loving  God  the  while,  like  his  children  ; 
and  we  cannot  even  think  the  grandeur,  and  the 
strength,  and  the  rapture,  with  which  the  thought 
of  God  will  quicken  in  us. 

MARHAM. 

True,  very  true       And  very  glad  I  an  at  what 


EUTHANASY.  217 

you  have  been  saying,  Oliver.  For,  Oliver,  why 
I  cannot  tell,  but  always  the  greatness  of  the  uni- 
verse has  been  to  me  an  oppressive  thought. 
Astronomy  is  no  delight  to  me,  but  appalling. 
Our  earth  is  not  the  only  planet  that  belongs  to 
our  sun,  nor  the  largest ;  it  is  only  one  out  of 
many,  and  it  is  a  thousand  times  smaller  than 
some  of  the  others.  In  thinking  of  the  solar  sys- 
tem, this  earth  feels  to  be  nothing  ;  and  it  is  pain- 
fully nothing,  in  comparison  with  the  thousands  of 
suns  we  know  of,  and  the  myriads  of  other  suns 
that  are  shining  beyond  the  reach  of  our  eyes. 
The  rays  of  the  sun  are  swift,  and  the  hght  of  the 
stars  is  quite  as  quick.  So  that  sometimes  my 
heart  has  almost  withered  in  me,  as  I  have  thought 
at  night  of  the  rays  of  some  stars  having  been 
travelling  towards  this  earth  longer  than  my  life. 
It  is  light  from  such  a  distance,  as  makes  the 
word  infinite  sound  dreadfully.  Sometimes  when 
I  have  been  thinking  astronomically  of  this  earth 
and  the  sun,  and  the  miUions  of  other  suns  there 
are,  and  of  what  I  am  in  it  all,  I  have  been  as 
though  lost,  —  I  have  been  quite  overwhelmed 
with  my  nothingness. 

AUBIN. 

Now,  uncle,  that  has  not  been  my  feeling  ever. 
For  the  sun  could  not  shine  long  without  me, 
nor  this  earth  continue.  For  in  the  universe,  ele- 
ments   and  forces    are. so  exactly    proportioned, 


218  EUTHANASY. 

that  the  least  change  in  one  would  disorder  the 
rest,  and  so  destroy  the  creation.  It  is  said  that 
not  an  atom  of  matter  could  be  struck  from  exist- 
ence, without  being  the  ruin  of  the  universe. 

MARHAM. 

It  may  be  true  ;  and  it  would  be  indisputably 
true,  if  the  universe  were  no  more  than  the  curi- 
ous machinery  which  it  is  often  thought.  But  its 
working  is  more  than  that  of  mechanism  ;  it  is  that 
of  an  infinite  spirit. 

AUBIN. 

I  quite  agree  with  you,  uncle.  And  so  we 
ought  to  be  hopeful  and  cheerful  ;  for  in  all  things 
about  us,  is  not  there  the  presence  of  a  spirit, 
wise,  loving,  and  almighty  ?  Providence  is  infi- 
nitely careful,  as  well  as  infinitely  vast.  It  is  not 
more  likely  that  I  should  be  forgotten  by  God, 
than  that  a  star,  a  world,  a  sun,  should  be.  In 
the  universe  I  am  not  a  mere  accident.  Nay, 
the  very  hairs  of  my  head  are  all  numbered,  and 
not  one  of  them  can  fall  without  my  Father  ;  and 
if  it  could,  it  would  be  into  annihilation  ;  and 
through  that,  there  would  be  a  time  when  this 
earth  would  begin  to  shake,  and  the  planets  to 
err  upon  their  orbits  ;  and  from  star  to  star,  and 
from  one  constellation  to  another,  the  heavens 
would  begin  to  wear  toward  their  destruction. 

MARHAM. 

And  pass  away  they  will,  some  time. 


EUTHANASY.  219 

AUBIN. 

Your  mind  can  think  the  blotting  out  of  the 
stars  ;  and  so  the  light  that  is  in  you  is  greater 
than  what  is  in  them  all,  —  greater  in  its  kind.  A 
destructive  blast  might  go  forth  and  extinguish  our 
sun,  and  other  suns,  one  after  another,  down  infi- 
nite space,  but  your  soul  be  swept  over,  and  be 
left  behind,  a  light  undimmed. 

MARHAM. 

What  you  have  said  this  afternoon  will  do  me 
good.  The  vastness  of  creation  has  been  to  me 
an  oppressive  thought  :  and  yet  it  ought  not  to 
have  been  ;  for  I  might  have  been  sure  there  was 
some  cheerful  way  of  thinking  of  it.  For  even 
of  clouds,  the  darkest  have  all  an  edging  of  light, 
showing  that  there  is  the  sun  behind  them. 

AUBIN. 

And  there  is  this  consideration,  uncle,  in  which 
I  am  sure  you  will  agree.  As  I  have  said  before, 
to  us  earthly  creatures  the  sun  looks,  and  was 
meant  to  look,  as  the  sun  only  of  our  sky,  and  not 
as  the  luminary  of  ten  or  twelve  or  more  firma- 
ments. For  my  seeing  him  shine  on  other  worlds 
would  be  of  no  use  to  me  for  what  I  have  to  do 
in  this  earth,  nor  would  it  make  me  more  loving, 
or  dutiful,  or  devout.  And  so  I  know  of  God 
what  is  good  for  me  ;  but  there  is  knowledge  of 
him  withheld  from  me,  —  such  knowledge  as  in 
my  present  circumstances  I  should  not  be  the  bet- 


22©  EUTHANASY. 

ter  for  having,  perhaps  ;  but  yet  such  as  for  not 
having  I  may  be  the  wiser,  that  is,  the  humbler. 

MARHAM. 

Many  things  we  are  ignorant  of  in  this  world. 
And  how  should  it  be  otherwise  with  us  ?  And 
many  things  will  never  be  known  of  in  this  earth 
at  all.  There  are  directions  into  which  inquiries 
might  be  made,  were  it  not  for  the  darkness.  But 
it  is  holy  darkness  ;  and  what  makes  man  the 
holier,  when  it  is  rightly  felt, 

AUBIN. 

I  know  that  darkness  is  good  for  me,  as  well  as 
light,  and  that  it  is  good  for  me  not  to  know  some 
things,  as  well  as  to  know  others  ;  and  for  myself, 
I  can  pray  to  God  out  of  my  whote  heart  and 
with  the  strength  of  my  understanding,  ''  Thy 
will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  in  heaven  "  ;  else 
there  is  not  a  flower,  nor  an  insect,  nor  a  bird, 
nor  an  animal,  nor  a  day,  nor  a  man,  but  might 
make  me  question  myself  to  madness. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  you  have  felt  the  same  as  I  have. 

AUBIN. 

Why  was  not  yonder  butterfly  created  an  an- 
gel ?  for  it  would  not  then  have  taken  up  more 
room  in  the  universe  than  it  does  now.  One  rea- 
son of  its  life  may  be  for  me  to  wonder  about  it. 
For  if  we  grew  up  in  the  knowledge  of  every 
thing,  we  should  never  grow  devout.     In  every 


EUTHANASY.  221 

way  of  thinking  of  it,  and  in  every  question  which 
can  be  asked  regarding  it,  this  world  is  mystery  ; 
so  as  to  shut  us  up  on  the  only  truth  which  can  be 
answered  about  it,  —  the  will  of  God.  But  O 
the  wondrousness  of  that  answer  !  for  in  the 
earnest  making  of  it  we  ourselves  are  made  god- 
like, —  are  made  to  feel  ourselves  children  of  the 
Highest. 

MARHAM. 

You  have  said  the  very  thing,  Oliver,  which 
often  and  often  I  have  wanted  to  know  ;  though 
I  do  not  know  that  I  ought  to  have  been  in  want 
of  it  ;  and  indeed  1  have  tried  not  to  think  of 
some  things  which  have  come  into  my  mind. 

AUBIN. 

I  can  so  easily  bewilder  myself  about  the  De- 
ity, if  I  think  of  him  as  the  God  of  the  hosts  of 
heaven,  —  every  host  a  myriad  times,  ten  myriad 
times,  more  numerous  than  the  inhabitants  of  this 
world  ;  also  if  I  think  of  him  as  the  Creator  of 
angels  and  archangels,  and  so  the  God  of  many  a 
million  worlds  besides  this  of  ours,  and  as  a  Being 
from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  and  as  almighty, 
yet  allowing  of  death  in  this  world  of  his.  All 
this  is  true,  and  I  know  it  to  be  true  :  but  such 
thoughts  are  too  high  for  me  ;  for  I  can  gaze  at 
them,  and  strain  my  eyes  after  where  they  lead, 
till  1  feel  blind,  and  could  grow  so.  In  every 
way   God  is  infinite,  and  so  I  never  could  have 


222  EUTHANASY. 

learned   him  of  myself.     But  he  has  shown  him- 
self as  the  sun  of  our  firmament. 

MARHAM. 

As  the  Father  of  our  Lord  Jesus.  Stars,  and 
ages,  and  infinities,  —  these  are  not  the  way  to 
think  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

They  can  awe  a  spirit,  but  enlighten  it  they 
cannot.  At  least  they  cannot  be  the  beginning  of 
light  in  the  soul  ;  but  Christian  belief,  when  it 
has  begun,  draws  into  itself  light  from  almost  ev- 
ery thing.  To  understand  at  all  what  life  means, 
one  must  begin  with  Christian  belief.  And  I 
I  think  knowledge  may  be  sorrow  with  a  man,  un- 
lless  he  loves.  Jt  is  my  right,  and  there  is  some 
duty  in  it,  too,  to  learn  all  that  is  to  be  known  of 
what  the  ages  and  the  great  men  of  this  world 
have  been,  and  of  the  worlds  beyond  worlds 
which  are  round  us  every  way.  But  the  look 
of  the  firmament  itself  hints  wisdom  to  us  ;  for 
bounded  by  the  horizon,  all  the  world  round  me 
is  only  a  few  miles.  From  which  I  may  feel,  that 
for  me  the  world  is  specially  meant  to  be  what  is 
just  about  me,  —  what  I  can  see  and  talk  with 
men  in,  and  be  kind  in,  and  do  duty  in.  Let  me 
be  right  with  the  world  about  me,  and  the  whole 
world  beyond  will  then  look  right  towards  me. 

MARHAM. 

Thank  you,   Oliver ;   for  you  have  instructed 


EUTHANASY.  223 

and  you  have  delighted  me  very  much  this  after- 
noon. And  your  imagination  is  not  lawless,  as  I 
nave  sometimes  feared  it  might  perhaps  be,  a 
little,  a  very,  very  little  :  but  it  is  not.  It  is  re- 
ligiously chastened  ;  it  is  hither  and  thither,  but 
'it  is  to  do  Christian  work  :  it  is  lowly  service  at 
the  door  of  the  church  ;  and  it  is  a  noble  hymn  in 
the  choir;  and  it  is  a  voice  from  the  pulpit  like  a 
clarion  ;  and  in  quieter  moments  it  is  a  vision  of 
heaven  and  hell,  and  unearthly  things. 

AUBIN. 

You  are  yourself  imaginative,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I !  not  1  !     No,  Oliver,  no  ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  you  are,  my  dear  uncle  ;  and  now  and 
then  very  beautifully  so  ;  but  more  so  in  talking 
with  me  than  with  any  one  else,  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

What  time  is  it,  Oliver  } 

AUBIN. 

Ten  minutes  to  five.  Which  time  of  the 
twenty-ninth  of  May,  of  the  year  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  forty-seven,  will  never  be.  again,  — 
never,  —  not  ever.  Every  day  the  world  is 
ripening  against  that  harvest  which  is  to  be  at  the 
end  of  it  ;  slowly,  perhaps  ;  and  yet  not  so  very 
slowly  considering  what  the  fruits  of  it  are  to  be, 
for  they  will  be  eternal  ;  they  will  be  souls,  — 
everlasting  souls. 


224  EUTHANASY. 


0 


MARHAM. 

A  very  beautiful  afternoon  !  And  so  sweet  the 
air  is  ;  is  not  it,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

0  that  lark  !  He  is  up,  singing  his  thanks  after 
yonder  cloud,  for  having  dropped  a  few  big  rain- 
drops on  the  field  ;  for  his  nest  is  in  it  ;  and  so 
the  grass  smells  more  sweetly  to  his  mate. 

MARHAM. 

It  must  have  been  on  an  afternoon  like  this  that 
holy  George  Herbert  first  sung  his  four  verses  on 
virtue  ;  playing  the  while  on  the  theorbo. 

AUBIN. 

1  should  like  to  hear  them,  uncle.  Will  you 
repeat  them  ? 

MARHAM. 

Now  you  must  like  them,  Oliver  ;  for  I  do  very 
much. 

Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night ; 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose,  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye  ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave. 
And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring,  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 


KUTHANASV.  225 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  seasoned  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

George  Herbert !  Holy  George  Herbert !  It 
is  more  than  two  hundred  years  since  he  was 
living.  Since  he  was  living,  did  I  say  ?  As 
though  he  had  been  any  thing  else  but  living  ! 
Between  him  and  me  there  have  dawned  and 
darkened  nearly  eighty  thousand  days  ;  and  yet 
he  is  to  me  as  though  he  lived  yesterday.  And 
if  he  is  this  to  me,  then,  very  certainly,  he  is 
more  than  this  to  God.  It  is  long,  — long,  —  a 
space  of  two  revolutions  and  many  wars,  since 
George  Herbert  lived  at  Bemerton.  And  yet 
through  eighty  millions  of  English  people  who 
have  lived  between  him  and  me  do  1  feel  him, 
feel  his  feelings,  feel  his  having  been  in  the  earth. 
I  am  only  one  of  so  many  brothers  of  his,  but 
his  spirit  has  not  died  to  me  ;  and  if  to  me  his 
spirit  has  not  died,  then  how  it  must  be  living  on 
to  God  !  O  Lord,  thou  lover  of  souls  !  You 
look  at  me,  Oliver,  as  though  you  thought  those 
words  were  my  own  ;  but  no,  —  they  are  not. 
They  are  from  the  Wisdom  of  Solomon,  and  very 
beautiful  they  are.  I  like  repeating  them,  —  O 
Lord,  thou  lover  of  souls  ! 


15 


226  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXL 


Praise  God,  creature  of  earth,  JTor  the  mercies  linked  with  secrecy, 
■  That  spices  of  uncertainty  enrich  thy  cup  of  life. 
Praijse  God,  his  hoits  on  liigh,  for  the  mysteries  that  make  all  joy ; 
What  were  intelligence,  with  nothing  more  to  learn,  or  heaven,  in  eternity 
of  sameness  ?  —  M.  F.  Topper. 


MARHAM. 

There  is  no  knowing  what  a  day  may  bring 
forth. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  many  a  one  for  whom  that  is  almost 
all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death.     Life  is  so 
uncertain  ! 

AUBIN. 

•  O,  this  uncertainty  is  great  wealth,  and  it  is 
the  freshness  of  existence.  And  there  are  those 
who  could  not  keep  living  from  year  to  year  with- 
out it. 

MARHAM. 

Do  you  think  so  ? 

AUBIN. 

To-day   I   am   poor,   ill,   and   friendless.     But 
to-morrow  I  may  be,  —  ay,  what  may  I  not  be  ? 


EUTHANASY.  227 

All  over  the  world  there  will  be  changes  ;  and 
why  not  so  in  my  lot  ?  Next  week  there  may 
chance  to  me  some  mechanical  discovery  that 
may  enrich  me  ;  or  I  may  be  reestablished  in  my 
health  ;  or  I  may  meet,  and  from  the  other  side 
of  the  world,  perhaps,  a  woman  who  may  become 
my  wife  ;  or  I  may  have  thoughts  come  into  my 
mind  that  will  be  for  the  good  and  the  love  of 
multitudes  of  men.  These  are  possible  things, 
though  not  likely.  But  this  is  no  improbability, 
—  my  dying  to-morrow.  I  may  never  be  rich, 
married,  famous,  healthy  ;  but  I  shall  be  still 
more  changed  ;  for  a  spirit  I  shall,  I  must,  be- 
come some  time.  Die,  —  I  may  die  to-morrow, 
and  so  to-morrow  prove  heir  to  a  crown  immor- 
tal, and  feel  in  my  soul  the  look  of  eyes  purer 
.and  more  loving  than  any  that  have  glanced  at  me 
yet  ;  and  have  throng  into  my  mind  thoughts,  O, 
so  beautiful,  and  blessed,  and  great  !  And  any 
day  this  may  happen  to  me  ;  for  death  keeps  no 
Jewish  Sabbath  any  more  than  the  sun  does.  Apd 
sometimes  I  could  be  glad  of  it  ;  for  to  some 
moods  of  my  mind  that  would  be  a  gloomy  day 
indeed,  on  which  the  earthly  could  not  become 
the  heavenly.  But  now  there  is  no  day  forbidden 
to  immortalize  man.  To-day,  to-morrow,  the 
day  after,  any  day,  gates  may  be  thrown  open, 
and  I  enter  in,  and  gems  and  sapphires  he  pov 
erty  with  me,  and  kings  and  princes  an  unheed- 


228  EUTHANASY. 

ed  company.  Any  day  I  may  die,  and  so  there 
is  no  day  but  feels  like  a  porch  that  may,  per- 
haps, open  into  the  next  world.  Yes,  death,  — 
the  hourly  possibility  of  it,  —  death  is  the  sub- 
limity of  life. 


EUTHANASl.  929 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

In  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 
The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 
Wide  open,  and  forth  come,  in  fragments  wild, 
Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 
And  odors  snatched  from  beds  of  amaranth. 
And  they  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 
Spring  up  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales ! 
The  favored  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 
Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 
Strange  bliss,  which  he  shall  recognize  in  heaven. 

COLERIDOB. 

AUBIN. 

O  THIS  earth,  this  dear,  green  earth,  this  hap- 
py, happy  earth  !  It  will  be  happy  and  beautiful 
without  us  soon.  We  shall  be  out  of  the  earth 
soon,  —  out  of  this  world,  but  not  out  of  its  beau- 
ty. The  grace  that  rises  from  the  earth  in  many 
a  tree  ;  the  fascination  that  eddies  and  murmurs 
in  flowing  water,  keeping  the  gazer  standing  on 
the  river-side  ;  the  beauty  that  lives  along  the 
plain,  and  sometimes  that  draws  man's  outstretch- 
ed hands  towards  itself,  as  though  in  recognition  ; 
the  loveliness  that  in  a  valley  is  round  and  over 
man,  and  embosomed  in  which  he  feels  unearth- 
ly and  sublimed  ;  the  dear  and  fearful  beauty  of 
the  lightning  ;  the  wild  grandeur  of  a  September 
sunset,   various,    and    living,    and   glowing  ;     all 


230  EUTHANASY. 

these  we  shall  see  again  ;  no,  —  not  see  ;  for 
these  thmgs  themselves  we  shall  not  see  ;  but 
what  is  in  them  all  we  shall  feel  again,  and  drink 
into  everlastingly.  And  it  will  be  a  dearer  de- 
light than  it  is  now,  and  intenser  and  fuller.  For 
then,  O  God,  we  shall  be  in  thee  and  of  thee  ; 
and  thou  wilt  be  to  us  like  an  ocean  of  delight, 
our  little  spirits  being  bathed  in  thine  infinite 
spirit. 

MARHAM. 

Amen,  O  Lord,  Amen  ! 

AUBIN. 

And  it  will  be  ;  just  as  we  are  sure  of  loving 
again,  because  God  is  love.  O,  I  have  some- 
times felt,  in  the  country,  what  I  fondly  think 
may  be  not  unlike  the  way  of  our  feeling  in  the 
next  world  ! 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  what  can  you  mean  ? 

AUBIN. 

When  I  was  a  boy  I  used  to  ramble  into  the 
country,  and  oftenest  into  a  quiet  valley,  for 
blackberries  and  nuts.  But  I  never  got  many 
when  I  went  alone.  For  in  the  woods  I  seldom 
was  long,  before  becoming  possessed  by  a  spirit, 
like  what  the  Greeks  imagined  was  Pan.  A  fear- 
ful pleasure  !  At  first  it  seemed  as  though  the 
low  wind  whispered  me  ;  and  then,  as  though  it 
waited  about  me  and  curled  round  my  face.      If  a 


EUTHANASY.  231 

branch  waved,  it  was  toward  me  ;  and  if  a  leaf 
fluttered,  so  did  my  heart.  It  was  as  though  my 
spirit  had  mehed  into  the  spirit  of  the  woods. 
Then  1  would  sit  down  and  wonder  at  niyself  in 
awe,  and  joy,  and  tears.  And  the  awe  in  my 
spirit  would  deepen,  and  the  joy  too,  and  my 
tears  would  fall  faster,  till  I  felt  as  the  child  Sam- 
uel may  have  done  in  the  temple,  while  waiting 
for  the  Lord  to  speak.  And  there  was  speech 
from  God  to  me  at  those  times  ;  because,  from 
my  feelings  then,  I  am  now  sure,  even  of  myself, 
of  the  blessedness  with  which  God  is  to  be  felt 
by  the  pure  in  heart. 

MARHAM. 

There  ares  many  of  the  feelings  of  childhood 
little  understood,  and  some  of  which,  I  do  not 
doubt,  are  vague  yearnings  after  God. 

AUBIN. 

On  the  Rhine,  and  overhanging  it,  is  the  Lur- 
leiberg,  a  rock.  One  evening  in  August  I  sat 
upon  it.  Up  and  down  the  river,  on  one  side, 
were  vineyards,  and  on  the  other,  thick  trees,  and 
across  it  was  the  little  town  of  Bingen  ;  but  from 
where  I  was,  it  seemed  to  contract  into  nothing, 
as  I  looked  at  it,  and  so  did  my  worldly  thoughts. 
And  into  my  soul  slid  the  calmness  of  the  scene, 
and  then  the  sublimity  of  it.  The  air  was  like  a 
living  presence  about  me,  and  the  rock  under- 
neath me  was  like  that  of  my  salvation  ;  and  from 


232  EUTHANASY. 

above,  it  was   as  though  there  were   descending 
into  my  soul  an  exceeding  weight  of  glory. 

MARHAM. 

Some  seeds  of  glory  fell  into  your  soul  then, 
no  doubt.  For  the  invisible  things  of  God  are  to 
be  understood  from  the  things  that  are  made. 

AUBIN. 

And  there  is  an  enjoyment  of  heaven,  for 
which  our  joy  in  nature  is  a  preparation.  And 
there  is  a  love  of  the  beautiful  arts,  which  a  man 
will  be  the  better  for,  hereafter.  Beauty  is  of 
God,  as  much  as  love  is,  or  truth. 

MARHAM. 

It  must  be  ;  and  the  earth  and  the  skies  are  the 
school  in  which  for  us  to  learn  it. 

AUBIN. 

I  shall  die  without  having  looked  on  the  Med- 
iterranean in  the  Bay  of  Naples,  and  without  hav- 
ing known  the  magic  effect  of  a  Milanese  atmos- 
phere. I  have  not  seen  the  valley  of  Chamouni, 
in  the  Alps,  nor  had  a  look  from  the  Pyrenees. 
The  gloom,  and  the  grandeur,  and  the  worship  of 
American  forests  have  not  been  felt  by  me ;  nor 
have  I  ever  rejoiced  in  the  flowers,  and  the  luxu- 
riance, and  the  deep  green  of  the  West  Indies. 
I  have  never  heard  Niagara  roar,  nor,  at  sight  of 
the  Mississippi,  thought  of  God,  and  been  de- 
voutly glad,  as  I  should  have  been  if  I  had  ever 
seen  it ;  for  the  sight  of  any  great  power  in  nature 


EtJTHANASY.  233 

is  to  me  like  God's  felt  presence  ;  and  during 
thunder  and  lightning,  I  cannot  so  well  pray  as 
sing  hymns. 

MARHAM. 

The  powers  of  nature  are  the  almightiness  of 
God  ;  and  so  they  are  what  can  be  triumphed  in. 

AUBIN. 

I  have  never  seen  the  Southern  Cross,  nor  felt 
the  beauty  and  the  mystery  of  the  Northern 
Lights.  These  things  I  shall  die  without  having 
known.  There  are  picture-galleries,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  which  I  should  like  to  have  lived 
a  little  while.  There  are  books  of  engravings 
that  I  wish  I  could  have  owned  years  ago.  And 
Athens  and  Rome  I  wish  I  had  had  opportunities 
of  visiting.  But  I  shall  die,  my  soul  not  enriched 
by  the  greater  marvels  of  the  world,  and  poor 
in  beauty. 

MARHABI. 

Not  poor,  though  not  as  rich  as  it  might  have 
been.  And  sometimes,  Oliver,  I  think,  under 
other  circumstances,  the  world  might  have  been 
the  better  for  you.  Such  things  as  you  have  been 
speaking  of  are  to  be  seen  for  money.  Now,  as  I 
know  myself,  one  pecuniary  prospect  you  declin- 
ed, on  account  of  your  scruples  of  conscience. 
And  you  were  right  in  doing  so,  feeling  as  you 
do.  There  are  grand  and  lovely  sights  in  the 
world,  and  some  of  them  you  might  have  had  the 


234  EUTHANASY. 

means  to  visit,  if  you  had  not  been  quite  so  scru- 
pulous. You  might  have  seen  more  than  you 
have  seen  ;  but,  Oliver,  I  cannot  think  that  your 
sense  of  beauty  will  prove  to  be  the  weaker  for 
such  actions  as  have  strengthened  your  conscience. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  in  the  world  fearful  wonder,  that  we 
have  never  thrilled  to  ;  but  before  us,  there  is  the 
great  mystery  of  death,  which  we  shall  not  miss 
of.  Then  what  is  beauty  in  nature  ?  It  is  God  ; 
so  that  it  is  what  we  shall  feel  more  sublimely 
hereafter,  than  we  could  anywhere  at  present. 
The  greatest  loveliness  of  this  earth  we  may  never 
see  ;  for  we  are  here  so  short  a  time,  and  we  are 
so  restrained  by  circumstances  ;  but  the  beauty 
of  the  everlasting  and  ever  brightening  heavens, 
we  are  sure  not  to  fail  of. 

MARHAM. 

We  trust  to  see  it. 

AUBIN. 

And  we  shall  not  only  see  it,  but  feel  it,  and 
enjoy  it.  That  we  certainly  shall  do,  though  in 
this  world  we  may  not  have  been  much  refined 
by  the  study  of  art,  or  by  travel  ;  for  he  who  is 
sensible  to  the  beauty  of  a  moral  life  wants  little 
towards  loving  well  and  wisely  all  beauty  else. 
In  the  neighbouring  town  there  are  many  saints, 
in  whom  taste  has  never  been  cultivated,  because 
necessity  has  kept  them  laboring  at  one  spot,  as 


ETTTHANASY.  235 

though  in  chains,  and  poverty  has  shut  them  out 
from  the  doors  of  many  opportunities.  While 
among  them  there  is  one,  perhaps,  with  an  eye 
hke  Raphael's,  and  anjther  with  feehng  hke  what 
Turner  has  ;  and  there  is  another,  perhaps,  whose 
mind  would  be  like  Bryant's,  only  there  are  no 
woods  in  which  for  the  man  to  strengthen  his 
soul.  But  now,  in  these  laboring  saints,  will  God 
let  the  feeling  of  beauty  become  extinct .''  No, 
never.  Nor  is  there  any  chance  of  its  dying  out 
in  them,  because  they  feel  the  beauty  of  holiness. 
Beauty  is  manifold  in  form,  but  in  spirit  it  is  one ; 
it  is  one  and  the  same  in  poetry,  music,  art,  na- 
ture, and  character.  Out  of  primitive  rudeness, 
he  who  has  fashioned  a  soul  after  the  Christian 
model  is  an  artist,  not  for  one  age  of  flattery,  nor 
many  years  of  wonder,  nor  for  time  at  all,  but  for 
eternity. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  in  that  way,  and  often,  many  that  are 
first  will  be  last,  and  the  last  be  first. 

AUBIN. 

There  are  rich  owners  of  statues  and  pictures, 
and  who  besides  can  talk  about  them  critically  ; 
yet  they  have  less  of  the  eternal  essence  and  soul 
of  beauty  in  them  than  there  is  in  some  herdsman 
on  their  grounds.  Pictures  will  perish,  and  the 
science  of  them  ;  so  alas  for  him  who  does  not 
feel  most  the  beauty  of  the  human  soul  ! 


236  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  all  over  now,  Oliver  ;  and  I  have  you 
here  ;  and  we  are  so  happy  together  !  And  now 
you  are  getting  well ;  and  you  will  be  well,  T  hope, 
in  a  few  months,  though  perhaps  not  very  strong  ; 
and  so  now  we  can  think  of  the  past,  and  talk 
about  it.  It  does  seem  to  me  such  a  pity,  such 
a  misfortune  for  society,  I  might  say,  that  you 
should  ever  have  been  in  want  of  any  means  for 
study,  or  for  self-improvement  in  any  way  !  O 
Oliver  !  for  a  man  like  you,  it  must  have  been 
very,  very  sad.  Now  it  is  all  past,  and  there  is 
no  help  for  it ;  but  we  can  believe  that  it  was  not 
•jll  evil  ;  cannot  we,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  Three  years  ago  I  was  mournful 
with  the  thought  of  mine  being  a  wasted  life,  —  of 
no  use  either  to  myself  or  others.  Not  covet- 
ously, but  I  did  long  for  a  little  of  that  money 
which  so  many  waste  on  luxuries,  to  their  own 
hurt ;  for  with  that  I  could  have  got  books  to 
read,  and  matter  to  think  about.  I  tried  to  bor- 
row books  from  two  or  three  persons  ;  but  I  could 
not  get  any  lent  me,  which  made  me  wretched. 
And  many  mournful  things  I  said  to  myself.  ^  I 
said,  I  am  in  this  world  along  with  the  works  of 
great,  old  writers,  and  I  cannot  have  them  to 
read  ;  —  I  am  going  away  beyond  the  stars  soon, 
and  I  shall  know  nothing  of  what  truth  is  new  in 


EUTHANASY.  237 

this  earth  ;  —  books  for  refinement  and  instruction 
are  lying  useless  in  libraries  and  on  booksellers' 
shelves,  while  my  soul  is  wanting  them  for  her 
good  ;  —  the  world  about  me  is  full  of  knowledge, 
and  I,  in  my  innermost  self,  am  perishing  for  lack 
of  it ;  —  I  am  made  for  wisdom,  1  am  anxious  for 
it,  I  am  called  upon  to  get  it,  both  by  God  and 
Christ,  and  yet  I  am  unable  to  be  learning;  — 
O,  the  end  of  my  life,  and  the  great  purpose  of 
the  world,'  is  spiritual  good  !  and  I  cannot  get 
any  ;  and  I  am  as  though  I  were  made  in  vain. 
So  I  thought  at  times  ;  and  sometimes  my  grief 
was  great,  —  very  bitter,  —  too  great  to  be  wept. 
I  said  to  myself,  that  the  world  was  not  right, 
some  persons  being  far  too  rich  for  their  good, 
and  others  too  poor  for  it.  And  then  T  thought, 
if  it  was  ill  with  me,  it  was  worse  with  some 
others,  for  that  they  did  not  even  wish  for  knowl- 
edge. Well,  now,  I  said,  there  is  opportunity 
for  my  being  useful,  and  for  my  learning  some- 
thing myself.  So  I  persuaded  some  rude  and  ig- 
norant persons  to  let  me  teach  them  ;  and  my 
books  were  what  they  read  to  me  ;  and  their 
minds  were  books,  out  of  which  I  read  to  myself. 
And  in  this  way  I  learned  what  is  not  to  be  learn- 
ed any  other  way.  And  in  my  teaching,  what 
knowledge  I  made  use  of  was  improved  for  me, 
as  iron  is  when  it  is  made  into  steel.  And  from 
experience  I  know,  that,  if  a  man  is  loving  and 


238  EXTTHANASY. 

earnest,  what  feeling  he  has  of  beauty  is  to  be 
kept  alive  in  him,  and  even  strengthened,  by 
every  soul  he  knows  of,  and  in  the  most  unlikely 
places  ;  just  as  the  beautiful  rose  blossoms  and 
lives  out  of  black  earth. 

MARHAM. 

Tell  me,  dear  Oliver,  was  not  that  sermon  of 
yours  written  about  the  time  which  you  have  been 
speaking  of  ? 

AUBIN.  ^ 

Yes,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I  thought  it  was  very  likely  to  have  been. 
Oliver,  you  have  been  a  very  noble 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes,  and  sometimes  very  unworthy,  pos- 
sessor of  what  light  God  has  given  me  to  live  by. 
For  sometimes  I  have  bitterly  wanted  to  have 
things  as  other  men  have  them ;  and  T  have  not 
always  been  contented  with  that  Christian  owner- 
ship through  which  all  things  are  mine,  whether 
things  present  or  things  to  come.    And  uncle 

MARHAM. 

Nay,  but  Oliver,  speak  about  the  feeling  of 
beauty  ;  say  what  you  were  going  to  say  when  I 
asked  you  about  the  sermon. 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  Only 
I    believe,    that,    for   the   enjoyment   of  heavenly 


EUTHANASY.  239 

beauty,  a  Christian  spirit  is  better  readiness  than 
a  well-educated  eye.  There  are  acts  of  forgive- 
ness that  will  hereafter  prove  to  have  refined  a 
man's  soul  more  than  the  ownership  of  a  gallery 
of  paintings  by  Correggio  and  Raphael. 


240 


EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

So  works  the  man  of  just  renown 

On  men,  when  centuries  have  flown : 

For  what  a  good  man  would  attain, 

The  naurrow  bounds  of  life  restrain ; 

And  this  the  balm  that  Grenius  gives,  — 

Man  dies,  but  after  death  he  lives.  —  Goethe. 


MARHAM. 

Well,  Oliver,  what  books  have  you  been 
reading  while  I  have  been  away  ? 

AUBIN. 

The  Song  of  the  Soul,  and  a  portion  of  the 
Ennead  of  Plotinus. 

MARHAM. 

Henry  More  was  a  Platonist,  as  well  as  Ploti- 
nus ;  but  More  was  a  Christian,  which  Plotinus 
was  not. 

AUBIN. 

This  edition  of  the  Ennead  was  printed  in 
1680  ;  and  on  the  title-page  Plotinus  is  de- 
scribed as  being  easily  the  Coryphaeus  of  all 
Platonists.  His  style  is  wonderful  ;  it  is  almost 
magical  in  its  effects  ;  for  it  is  so  very  clear. 
The  book  is  as  though  it  had  been  written 
with  a  diamond  ;  it  is  like  cut-glass,  like  a 
very  rich  vessel  of  it,  —  so  very  rich,  and  beauti- 


EUTHANASY.  241 

ful,  and  labored,  that  you  doubt  your  senses,  and 
you  agree  with  yourself  that  it  cannot  be  only  a 
drop  of  water  that  is  held  in  so  costly  a  vessel, 
but  some  elixir. 

MARHAM. 

What  is  the  character  of  his  argument,  Ol- 
iver ? 

AUBIN. 

This  edition  of  the  Ennead  was  edited  by  Mar- 
silius  Ficinus,  and  is  dedicated  to  Lorenzo  de' 
Medici.  At  the  end  of  the  chapter  on  the  im- 
mortality of  the  soul,  the  editor  asks  Lorenzo 
whether  he  would  not  like  to  have  a  summary  of 
the  long  argument ;  and  then  he  gives  it,  and  says 
the  soul  is  immortal  ;  first,  because  she  is  mis- 
tress of  her  perishing  circumstances,  and  is  able 
to  resist  bodily  impulses  ;  secondly,  because  she 
often  thinks  of  many  things  which  are  distinct 
from  bodies  of  all  kinds,  either  because  they  are 
separate  naturally,  or  because  she  herself  distin- 
guishes them  in  that  way  ;  thirdly,  because  by  na- 
ture she  desires  eternal  things,  and  indeed  often 
foregoes  things  temporal  in  her  confidence  of 
those  which  are  eternal ;  and  fourthly,  because 
she  worships  the  Everlasting  God  in  the  persua- 
sion of  an  unending  life^ 

MARHAM. 

And  how  do  you  like  the  Song  of  the  Soul  .'* 
16 


^42  eUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

0  uncle  !  very  much,  very  much  indeed. 
Yours  is  the  only  copy  of  it  T  have  ever  seen  ; 
and  I  have  been  delighted  with  it. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  very  ruggedly  written. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is  ;  but  now  and  then  there  are  lines 
which  are  more  than  smooth,  and  quite  musical, 
—  though  they  are  not  many  ;  but  1  will  read 
you  two  or  three. 

MARHAM. 

1  would  rather  you  would  give  me  some  ac- 
count of  the  book,  and  here  and  there  read  me 
such  passages  as  you  think  I  may  understand. 
Once  or  twice,  many  years  ago,  I  tried  to  read 
the  book,  but  I  could  not.  On  the  title-page  it 
is  said  to  be  Christiano-Platonical,  is  not  it  ? 
What  year  was  it  printed  in  ?  For  sometimes 
from  the  date  of  a  book  one  can  understand  the 
spirit  of  it  a  httle  better. 

AITBIN. 

It  was  in  1647. 

MARHAM. 

And  this  is  1847.  It  is  singular,  is  not  it? 
I  think  that  must  have  been  one  of  Dr.  More's 
earlier  works. 

AUBIN. 

I  think  it  was  ;  for  it  was  printed  at  Cambridge, 


EUTHANASY.  243 

which  would  seem  to  show  that  the  writer  had  not 
at  that  time  left  the  University.  Then  there  is 
this  ;  —  the  author  dedicates  the  book  to  his  dear 
father,  Alexander  More,  Esquire,  and  says  that 
he  pleases  himself  with  embalming  his  name  to 
immortality,  who  next  under  God  is  the  author  of 
his  life  and  being. 

MARHAM. 

I  like  that  ;  for  it  is  affectionately,  and  rever- 
ently, and  simply  said. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  what  is  affecting  in  loving  words  like 
these,  outlasting  so  long  the  hand  that  wrote  them 
apd  the  eyes  they  were  meant  for.  The  right 
hand  of  the  philosopher  and  affectionate  son  is 
dust,  but  his  ideas  are  living  still  :  and  one  is 
willing  to  think  of  this  as  being  in  accordance 
with  the  immortality  of  the  spirit,  and  as  some 
effect  of  it. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  it  is  exactly  two  centuries  since  Dr.  Hen- 
ry More  published  this  book,  perhaps  this  very 
month,  or  even  day.  But  what  a  season  it  was 
in  which  for  a  poet  to  sing  his  Song  of  the  Soul  ! 
For  it  was  a  time  of  civil  war  ;  counties,  and 
towns,  and  many  houses,  divided  against  them- 
selves ;  doubts  in  men's  minds,  and  troopers 
on  the  high-roads  ;  King  Charles  at  Hampton 
Court,  the  Parhament  in  London,  and  the  army 


^i^  EUTHANASY. 

at  St.  Albans,  all  three  powers  being  opposed 
to  one  another.  Ay,  and  1647  was  the  year 
in  which  George  Fox  got  spiritually  enlight- 
ened But  for  one  minute,  let  me  look  into 
his  Journal.  Yes  !  At  the  beginning  of  the 
year  he  says  that  his  troubles  continued,  and 
there  were  many  temptations  over  him  ;  that 
he  fasted  much,  walked  abroad  in  solitary  places 
many  days,  and  often  took  his  Bible  and  sat 
in  hollow  trees  and  lonesome  places  till  night 
came  on,  and  frequently  in  the  night  walked  about 
mournfully  by  himself.  But  before  the  end  of 
the  year  he  records  that  he  had  great  openings, 
and  that  he  saw  the  mountains  and  the  rubbish 
burning  up,  and  the  rough,  crooked  ways  and 
places  made  smooth  and  plain,  for  the  Lord  to 
come  into  his  tabernacle  ;  that  he  saw  the  infinite 
love  of  God  ;  and  that  he  saw,  also,  that  there  is 
an  ocean  of  darkness  and  death,  but  an  infinite 
ocean  of  light  and  love  which  flows  over  the 
ocean  of  darkness.  And,  O,  then,  he  says,  he 
saw  his  troubles,  trials,  and  temptations  more 
clearly  than  ever  he  had  done  ;  for  as  the  light 
appeared,  all  appeared  that  is  out  of  the  light ; 
that  darkness,  death,  temptations,  the  ungodly, 
the  unrighteous,  all  were  manifest  and  seen  in  the 
light.  He  says  soon  afterwards,  that  he  was  come 
up  in  the  spirit,  through  the  flaming  sword,  into 
the  Paradise  of  God  ;  that  he  knew  nothing;  but 


EUTHANASY.  245 

pureness,  innocency,  and  righteousness,  being  re- 
newed up  into  the  innocency  of  God  by  Christ 
Jesus  ;  so  that  he  was  conne  up  to  the  state  which 
Adam  was  in  before  he  fell. 

AUBIN. 

There  was  great  likeness  between  Fox  and 
More,  both  in  their  minds  and  views.  But  that 
is  a  thing  which  would  not  have  been  readily  be- 
lieved by  George  Fox,  the  despiser  of  colleges 
and  the  enemy  of  steeple-houses.  Of  this  Song 
of  the  Soul,  the  first  part  is  a  Christiano-Platon- 
ical  display  of  life,  which  I  have  read,  but  which 
I  cannot  easily  give  an  account  of.  But,  O  !  in 
the  description  of  the  character  of  God  there  is 
one  line,  quaint  but  endearing,  and  which  is  very 
good  :  — 

Father  of  lights  and  everlasting  glee. 

Is  not  it  a  happy  line,  uncle  ? 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver.  But  is  not  it  in  a  passage  which 
I  can  understand  .''     What  is  the  subject  of  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

The  Triad  of  Plato.  In  the  notes  to  the 
poem.  Dr.  More  says  that  the  third  person  of  this 
Triad  is  Love  ;  and  that  Peter  Lombard  held 
that  the  Holy  Ghost  is  the  same.  To  be  influ- 
enced by  this  Divine  Love  is  for  our  souls  to  be 
baptized  with  the  Holy  Spirit  ;  and  this  is  the 
baptism  which  is  salvation.      Baptism  in  the  name 


246  EUTHANASY. 

of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Spirit  is 
of  more  consequence  than  the  reading  of  all  the 
learned  and  acute  tracts  about  the  Trinity  ;  for 
that  is  what  might  be  permitted  to  the  Devil,  but 
the  other  is  the  privilege  only  of  the  good  and 
pious  man.  Baptism  of  the  Christian  spirit, 
coming  from  the  Father  and  through  the  Son,  is 
the  certainty  of  salvation. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  I  believe.  Now  you  have  turned  to 
what  seems  another  part  of  the  poem. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  what  pleases  me  most ;  perhaps  be- 
cause I  understand  it  best.  The  immortality  of 
the  soul  is  a  truth  which  is  not  bright  except  to 
the  pure  in  heart.  The  soul  has"  power  rising 
from  within  itself;  but  is  it  therefore  eternal? 
Man  cannot  be  sure  of  it,  and  the  more  he  thinks 
of  it,  the  more  he  doubts.  It  is  night,  and  a  mis- 
erable man  walks  in  it,  for  he  cannot  sleep.  An 
angel  comes  to  him  and  tells  him  the  manner  of 
spiritual  life. 

And  more  for  to  confirm  this  mystery, 
She  vanished  in  ray  presence  into  air; 
She  spread  herself  with  the  thin,  liquid  sky. 
But  I  thereat  fell  not  into  despair 
Of  her  return,  nor  wailed  her  visage  fair, 
That  so  was  gone.    For  I  was  waxen  strong 
In  this  belief,  that  nothing  can  impair 
The  inward  life,  or  its  hid  essence  wrong. 
O  the  prevailing  might  of  a  sweet,  learned  tongue ! 


EUTHANASY.  247 

The  soul  is  not  a  body,  nor  a  spread  form,  nor 
any  quality  of  a  body  ;  so  it  is  not  subject  to  the 
laws  of  matter,  and  therefore  not  to  death.  Also 
that  the  soul  is  not  corporeal,  and  is  not  mortal, 
is  to  be  proved  from  the  nature  of  our  rational 
powers,  and  especially  from  our  being  capable  of 
religion.  Now  are  not  these  two  stanzas  admira- 
ble ?     O,  they  are,  very  ! 

But  true  religion,  sprung  from  God  above, 
Is  like  her  fountain,  full  of  charity, 
Embracing,  all  things  with  a  tender  love, 
Full  of  good-will  and  meek  expectancy, 
EuU  of  true  justice  and  sure  verity, 
In  heart  and  voice ;  free,  large,  even  infinite ; 
Not  wedged  in  strait  particularity. 
But  grasping  all  in  her  vast,  active  spright. 
Bright  lamp  of  God !  that  men  would  joy  in  thy  pure  light ! 

Can  souls  that  be  thus  universalized, 
Begot  into  the  life  of  God,  e'er  die  ? 

MARHAM. 

That  is  well  asked  ;  and   that  description   of 
what  religion  is  is  truly  Christian. 

AUBIN. 

Can  souls  ever  die  that  have  been  living  in  God, 
and  in  some  manner  like  God  ? 

Can  they  fly 
Into  a  nothing  ?    And  hath  God  an  eye 
To  see  himself  thus  wasted  and  decay 
In  his  true  members  ?     Can  mortality 
Seize  upon  that  which  doth  itself  display 
Above  the  laws  of  matter  or  the  body's  sway  ? 


348  EUTHANASY. 

Now,  uncle,  excepting  in  the  Bible,  a  finer  thing 
has  never  been  said  than  this  asking  if  God  could 
bear  to  see  souls  perish.  O,  it  is  boldly,  and 
tenderly,  and  grandly  asked  ! 

MARHAM. 

A  good  man  Henry  More  was,  we  may  be 
sure,  for  it  was  out  of  the  treasure  of  a  good 
heart  that  those  thoughts  came.  ^ 

AUBIN. 

Ask  the  soul  whether  God  is  one  thing,  and 
she  answers  that  he  is  not  ;  or  whether  he  is 
another  thing,  and  she  says  that  he  is  not  ;  or 
whether  he  is  sometimes  in  one  place  and  some- 
times in  another,  or  always  present  everywhere, 
and  she  makes  answer  at  once,  that  God  is  omni- 
present. 

So  that  it  is  plain,  that  some  kind  of  insight 
Of  God's  o^vn  being  in  the  soul  doth  dwell ; 
Though  what  God  is  we  cannot  yet  so  plainly  teil. 

But  we  can  tell  from  this  what  we  ourselves  are. 
We  are  souls.  For  it  is  not  with  our  hands,  nor 
with  any  of  our  bodily  senses,  that  we  feel  God  ; 
nor 

Can  aught  bom  of  tliis  carcass  be  so  free, 
As  to  grasp  all  things  in  large  sympathy. 

Reckon  up  all  the  properties  of  the  human  body, 
and  they  will  not  account  for  all  the  feelings 
that  we  have.  There  is,  then,  a  soul  in  man  ; 
and  she 


EUTHANASY.  249 

Foresees  her  own  condition.     She  relates 
The  all-comprehension  of  eternity  ; 
Complains  she  is  thirsty,  in  all  estates ; 
That  all  she  sees  or  has  don't  satisfy 
Her  hungry  self,  nor  fill  her  vast  capacity. 

This  alone  might  persuade  us  of  our  being  des- 
tined to  a  higher  life.  Only  what  we  most  long 
for  we  are  so  slow  to  believe  !  We  can  never  be 
sure  enough  about  it ;  if  we  are  well  convinced 
of  it,  then  we  want  to  be  more  strongly  convinced  ; 
and  if  ourselves  we  are  certain,  then  we  want  to 
have  the  mouths  of  all  doubts  stopped,  both  in 
men  and  books.  We  may  believe  ourselves  im- 
mortal, from  the  nature  of  the  connection  between 
the  soul  and  the  body.  The  soul  was  not  made 
for  the  body,  but  the  body  for  the  soul  ;  and 

when  this  work  shall  fade, 
The  soul  dismisseth  it  as  an  old  thought. 

Then  reflect  on  the  difference  there  is  betw^een 

the  influences  which  act  upon  the  soul  ;  for  some 

of  them  are  from  this  outward  world,  and  others 

are  from  the  spiritual  world. 

When  we  are  clothed  with  this  outward  world, 
Feel  the  soft  air,  behold  the  glorious  sun, 
AU  this  we  have  from  meat,  — 

and  from  bodily  feelings  that  are  kept  alive  by 
food.  But  our  mouths  open  themselves  through 
appetites  created  in  us,  which  appetites  are  the 
natural  man.  That  is  first  which  is  natural  ;  but 
afterward    there  is  that  which   is    spiritual  ;    for 


S50  EFTHANASY. 

there  are  created  in  us  spiritual  capabilities.  And 
what  earth  and  sky  are  to  our  bodies,  the  world  of 
spirit  is  to  our  souls.  And  so  we  may  know  our- 
selves to  be  closely  related  to  the  everlasting  ;  for 

In  the  higher  world  there  is  such  communion. 
Christ  is  the  sun,  that,  by  his  cheering  might, 
Awakes  our  higher  rays  to  join  with  his  pure  light. 

And  when  he  hath  that  life  elicited, 
He  gives  his  own  dear  body,  and  his  blood, 
To  drink  and  eat    Thus  daily  we  are  fed 
Unto  eternal  life. 

And  now  comes  a  long  proof  of  the  earth's  re- 
volving round  the  sun. 

MARHAM. 

But  what  can  be  the  purpose  of  that,  in  an  ar- 
gument on  the  immortality  of  the  soul  ? 

AUBIN. 

If  the  strength  of  outward  impressions  is  to  be 

corrected  and  conquered  by  our  right  reason,  then 

wo  see 
That  we  have  proper,  independent  might, 
In  our  own  mind,  behold  our  own  idea, 
Which  needs  must  prove  the  soul's  sure  immortality. 

And  now  against  the  fear  of  death,  the  conscious- 
ness of  justice  is  of  great  help  ;  for 

Strange  strength  resideth  in  the  soul  that 's  just. 
Then  man  may  expect  a  happy  immortality  from 
the  character  of  his  Maker.     For  it  is  blasphem- 
ing the  name  of  God  to  say  that  he  does,  or  can 
do,  any  thing  else  than  love  us  human  creatures  of 


EUTHANASY.  251 

his.  For  an  instance,  suppose  it  possible  that  our 
Creator  does  not  care  for  us,  and  lets  our  souls  be 
at  the  mercy  of  enemies,  and  then  feel  the  con- 
sequences. Now  are  not  these  lines  very  touch- 
ing ?  They  are  not  to  be  believed  for  a  minute, 
and  yet  they  might  almost  make  one  weep.  God  ! 
God,  my  Maker  !  — 

I  feel  that  he  is  loved 
Of  my  dear  soul,  and  know  that  I  have  home 
Much  for  his  sake ;  yet  is  it  not  hence  proved 
That  I  shall  live.     Though  I  do  sigh  and  mourn 
To  find  his  face,  his  creature's  wish  he  '11  slight  and  scorn. 
When  I  breathe  out  my  utmost  vital  breath, 
And  my  dear  spirit  to  my  God  commend, 

1  shall  find  that  God  does  not  care  for  me  at  all ; 

I  shall  be  wretched,  and  without  help,  and  be  the 

victim  of  enemies  ;  — 

Though  I  in  heart's  simplicity  expected 
A  better  doom,  since  I  my  steps  did  bend 
Toward  the  will  of  God,  and  had  detected 
Strong  hope  of  lasting  life ;  but  now  I  am  rejected. 

That  a  good  man  should  die  a  death  like  this  is 
what  cannot  be.     And  then  we  must  believe  that 
God  is  good,   or  there  can  be   no   faith   in  any 
thing.      So    that   predestination  and    its    kindred 
doctrines  are  not  even  to  be  mentioned,  nor 
such  odd  thoughts,  that  thus  pervert 
The  laws  of  God,  and  rashly  do  assert 
That  will  niles  God,  but  good  rules  not  God's  will. 

And  then,  in  reference  to  the  doctrine  that  some 
men  are  elected  to  perdition,  he  says,  — 


252  EUTHANAST. 

O  horrid  blasphemy ! 
That  heaven's  unblemished  beauty  thus  dost  stain ! 

There  is  nothing  God  possibly  can  wish,  but  the 
good  of  his  creatures.  There  is  nothing  in  us  he 
can  intend,  but  happiness  ;  for  there  is  nothing 
God  can  want  for  himself,  because  his  own  na- 
ture is  sufficient  for  him,  being  infinitely  full  and 
glad  and  excellent.  In  order  to  be  saved,  a  man 
has  only  to  be  willing,  has  only  to  be  sincere  and 
without  hypocrisy,  has  only  not  to  be  excusing 
his  sins  to  his  conscience,  and  extenuating  them 
to  his  friends.  For  God,  with  his  spirit,  is 
everywhere,  and  always  and  anxiously  he  is  try- 
ing to  win 

Unto  himself  such  as  be  simply  true, 
And  with  malignant  pride  resist  not  him ; 
But  strive  to  do  what  he  for  right  doth  shew  , 
So  still  a  greater  light  he  brings  into  their  view. 

God  is  the  life  of  all  lives,  and  the  strength  of  all 
things  ;  and  so  he  is  to  be  firmly  trusted  in.  But 
holy  trust  is  not  a  thing  to  be  argued  step  by 
step  ;  for  what  it  is,  words 

Cannot  declare,  nor  its  strange  virtue  show. 
That 's  it  holds  up  the  soul  in  all  her  woe, 
That  death,  nor  hell,  nor  any  change,  doth  fray. 
Who  walks  in  light  knows  whither  he  doth  go. 
Our  God  is  light ;  we,  children  of  the  day. 
God  is  our  strength  and  hope :  what  can  us,  then,  dismay? 

MARHAM. 

That  is  true  and  to  be  trusted.     Yes,  — 

God  is  our  strength  and  hope  :  what  can  us,  then,  dismay  ? 


EUTHANASY.  253 

AUBIN. 

Here  are  ingenious  answers  to  such  questions 
as  why  Adam  was  made  with  such  a  loose  will  as 
to  have  forfeited  Paradise  so  foolishly  ;  if  souls 
can  exist  of  themselves,  why  they  should  be  in- 
closed in  wretched  bodies  ;  why  the  world  was 
not  made  larger  than  it  is,  and  much  sooner  than 
it  was. 

MARHAM. 

These  are  the  greater  secrets  of  the  Divine 
counsel.  Christ  never  spoke  of  them.  And 
with  these  infinite  questions,  we  finite  creatures 
are  worse  than  water-flies  thinking  to  struggle  up 
the  falls  of  Niagara.  But  you  are  turning  over 
the  pages  very  fast,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

From  old  age,  it  might  be  thought  that  the 

spirit   might  very  likely   hve   without   the  body. 

For  often,  while  the  body  weakens,  the  soul 
strengthens. 

Mild,  gentle,  quick,  large,  subtile,  serene, — 
These  be  her  properties  ;  which  do  increase, 

though  the  body  may  be  losing  strength.  In  old 
age,  a  man  may  not  have  passion  set  through  his 
soul  like  a  whirlwind,  nor  like  a  breeze  ;  — 

But  the  will  doth  flower 
And  fairly  spread ;  near  to  our  last  decease, 
-    Embraceth  good  with  much  more  life  and  power. 
Than  ever  she  could  do  in  her  fresh,  vernal  hour. 


254  EUTHANASY. 

This  is  said  not  without  some  beauty,  as  well  as 
truth  ;  is  not  it,  uncle  ?  We  are  sure  of  a  future 
life.  But  of  what  kind  will  that  life  be  ?  It  will 
be  like  what  we  are  ourselves.  At  death,  the 
souls  of  men  are  drawn,  through  their  feelings,  into 
their  right  places,  quite  naturally  and  exactly  ;  for 

God,  heaven,  this  middle  world,  deep  glimmering  hell. 
With  all  the  lives  and  shapes  that  there  remain,  — 
The  forms  of  all  in  human  souls  do  dwell. 
She  likewise  all  proportions  doth  contain ; 
Which  fits  her  for  all  spirits. 

And  so,  like  a  bad  man  drawn  into  bad  company 

in  an  evening,  the  soul  that  is  bad  will  in  the 

future  world  be  drawn  into  the  outer  darkn'?ss 

But  heaven  will  draw  into  itself  what  souls   are 

good  ;  and  also  these  souls  will  be  drawn   into 

places  fittest  for  them  ;  and  those  that  have  been 

holiest  will  be  drawn  nighest  to  God. 

What  now  remains,  but,  since  we  are  so  sure 
Of  endless  life,  that  to  true  piety 
We  bend  our  minds,  and  make  our  conscience  pore, 
Lest  Uving  night  in  bitter  darkness  us  immure  ? 

MAKHAM. 

It  is  day  with  us  yet ;  it  is  what  we  can  call 
to-day  ;  and  while  we  can  call  it  so,  we  will  work. 

AUBIN. 

While  in  the  body,  if  the  soul  were  to  keep 
her  attention 

fast  fixed  on  high. 
In  midst  of  death  't  were  no  more  fear  or  pain, 


EUTHANAST.  255 

Than  't  was  unto  Elias  to  let  fly 
His  useless  mantle  to  that  Hebrew  swain, 
"While  he  rode  up  to  heaven  in  a  bright,  fiery  wain. 

That  is  a  noble  image,  is  not  it  ?  It  makes  me 
feel  as  though  this  garment  of  flesh  might  be  slip- 
ped at  the  last  easily,  and  like  a  cloak. 
'marham. 
Thank  you,  Oliver.  Your  account  of  the 
book  has  pleased  me,  and  I  hope  it  may  do  me 
some  good. 

AUBIN. 

At  the  end  of  it,  the  book  states  its  purpose  to 
be  to  make  the  readers  of  it  think  two  things  , 
one  of  which  is,  that  every  holy  soul  hereafter 
shall  enjoy  a  never-fading  felicity  in  the  invisible 
and  eternal  heaven,  the  intellectual  world. 

MARHAM. 

But  what  else  is  the  book  to  prove  .'* 

AUBIN. 

That  this  world  is  a  commixture  of  light  and 
darkness  ;  but  that  God  will  through  his  power 
rescue  those  souls  that  are  faithful  in  their  trial, 
and  that  prefer  the  light  before  the  dark,  deliver- 
ing them  from  living  death  and  hell  by  that  strong 
arm  of  their  salvation,  Jesus  Christ. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  a  good  book.  I  have  long  wished  to 
know  what  was  in  it ;  I  might  have  read  it  for 
myself,  and  I  ought  to  have  done  so,  perhaps  ; 


256  EUTHANASY. 

but  I  was  frightened  at  the  Platonic  words  in  it, 
and  at  its  being  in  not  very  good  verse.  But  by 
your  help,  Oliver,  I  like  the  book. 

AUBIN. 

And  by  that  liking,  you  may  know  yourself  to 
be  a  living  soul,  and  so  a  soul  to  live  for  ever. 
Throughout  the  book  there  is  the  spirit  of  im- 
mortality, which  you  feel,  and  that  is  because  vou 
are  yourself  immortal  ;  for 

Only  the  spirit  can  the  spirit  own ; 
just  as  the  light  can  only  be  seen  by  light. 

MARHAM. 

That  one  line  is  a  thing  worth  thinking  of. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is  ;  and  by  itself  it  would  make  us  fel- 
low-debtors with  Abraham  Cowley.  For  you 
and  I,  uncle,  —  we  feel  what  the  poet  would 
seem  to  have  felt  at  a  time  of  life  when  he  knew 
how  much  he  had  been  bettered  by  the  philoso- 
pher ;  and  so  we  will  say  that  we  have  learned 
things  of  infinite  advantage  from  the  admirable 
Dr.  Henry  More,  of  Christ's  College,  who  is  to 
be  looked  upon  as  one  of  those  bright  stars  which 
God  permitted  to  shine  on  a  darkened  age, — 
stars  whose  lustre  he  has  never  suffered  to  be 
entirely  wanting. 

MARHAM. 

I  do  not  know  why,  but  always  I  have  had 
some  affection  for  the  name  of  Henry  More. 


EUTHANASY.  257 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  it  is  because  you  are  the  better  for  him. 
And  you  are  not  one  of  the  multitude  who  are 
unwilling  to  return,  or  even  acknowledge,  any 
good  which  is  done  them  without  their  asking. 
Some  time  since,  when  we  were  reading  the  Di- 
vine Dialogues,  you  said  you  should  like  to  know 
where  Henry  More  was  buried,  so  as  to  have  his 
tomb  cared  for.  But  if  he  had  been  living,  and 
been  in  want  of  bread,  you  would  not  have  been 
the  friend  to  have  only  intended  him  a  stone  after 
his  death.  In  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  high  pre- 
ferment in  the  Church  was  offered  him,  but  I 
suppose  his  conscience  hindered  his  acceptance  of 
it.  However,  he  always  lived  easily,  though,  as 
it  would  appear  from  his  own  words,  not  quite  as 
prosperously  as  he  might  have  done,  if  he  had 
not  been  the  earnest,  pure  thinker  that  he  was. 
But  who  asked  him  to  philosophize  in  religion, 
instead  of  making  money  for  himself,  or  taking 
his  pleasure  ?  Who  asked  him  to  write  on  the 
grounds  of  faith  in  religion,  and  on  the  mystery  of 
godliness  }  The  Song  of  the  Soul,  —  who  ask- 
ed it  from  him  ?  It  might  be  answered,  that  the 
prophets  became  such  without  any  man's  asking 
them  ;  though,  after  having  been  stoned,  they  were 
commonly  reverenced  for  having  been  inspired. 
Here  are  these  books  about  us  for  which  the 
world  is  the  wiser,  and  through  the  writing  of 
17 


258  EUTHANASY. 

which  men  are  not  the  Calmucks,  and  the  Hot- 
tentots, and  the  Cossacks,  they  would  otherwise 
have  been  ;  and  yet  in  many  a  one  there  is  the 
question,  as  to  why  he  should  be  grateful.  Who 
asks  authors  to  write  ?  To  this  worldly  question 
one  of  them  says,  that  he  has  no  share  in  the 
choice  of  his  lot  as  a  thinker,  except  his  readiness 
to  be  an  organ  for  God  to  work  with  among  men  ; 
and  another  makes  such  a  helpless,  yet  such  a 
touching  answer,  — 

This  is  the  thing  that  I  was  born  to  do ; 
This  is  my  scene  ;  this  part  must  I  fulfil. 

MARHAM. 

If  it  is  not  for  fame,  nor  money,  nor  for  self- 
interest  in  any  other  way,  that  a  man  of  genius 
writes,  then  it  must  be  because  he  is  constrained 
to  the  work  from  within  himself,  and  in  a  manner 
that  I  can  well  believe  to  be  quite  strange  and  in- 
credible to  a  selfish  man. 

AUBIN. 

These  great  thinkers,  then,  we  will  love  like 
brethren  of  ours  ;  for  so  they  are  ;  —  not  after  the 
flesh,  indeed,  but  they  are  our  kindred  after  the 
spirit,  and  through  God.  And  by  our  loving 
them,  they  are  to  be  understood  the  better,  and 
they  make  us  very  much  the  better.  Because 
it  is  only  from  the  height  of  our  nature  that  we 
can  love  those  of  a  high  nature.  And  we  our- 
selves grow  gentle,  by  loving  a  writer  of  gentle 


EUTHANASY.  259 

thoughts.  And  there  are  devout  men,  the  aiFec- 
tionate  remembrance  of  whose  names  makes  the 
soul  ready  for  prayer.  So  God  be  blessed  for 
the  great  men  we  know  of  ! 

MARHAM. 

And  make  us  be  like  them  in  all  good  respects  ! 

AUBIN. 

A  truth  cannot  be  rightly  felt  without  love,  — 
without  the  author  of  it  being  to  us  a  brother  to 
be  proud  of.  The  foolish  homage  to  great  men 
that  the  multitude  sometimes  show  comes  of  right- 
ful impulses  in  them,  —  of  a  way  of  feeling  which 
God  has  made  in  them  for  their  good  ;  and  that 
will  be  shown  more  becomingly,  and  lovingly, 
and  wisely,  in  wiser  ages.  A  man  makes  himself 
closely  akin  to  excellence,  does  himself  grow  ex- 
cellent, by  making  a  noble  thinker,  or  a  hero,  or  a 
saint,  be  his  brother  if  he  can.  This  is  a  great 
truth  ;  and  it  is  what  reaches  farther  and  higher 
than  would  often  be  believed.  For  even  if  there 
is  a  mere  sufferer  from  pain,  or  for  righteousness' 
sake,  and  there  is  sympathy  felt  for  him,  then 
there  are  other  men  who  are  the  better  for  him, 
and  with  his  stripes  who  are  healed.  What  I 
mean  is  this,  uncle,  —  and  it  is  what  my  soul  feels, 
like  a  truth  of  God,  —  that  through  fellow-feeling 
with  them  that  are  great  in  soul  there  is  to  be 
caught  a  temper,  a  frame  of  mind,  a  spirit,  just 
ready  to  be  great,  and  that  will  open  into  great- 
ness at  once  in  the  world  to  come. 


260  EUTHAlfASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  what  you  have  said  —  I  mean  —  I 
have  a  strange  feeling  of  its  being  right  ;  but  how, 
I  do  not  know.  But  it  is  a  strange  power  which 
we  naen  have  over  one  another.  Oliver,  my 
mind  is  growing  more  like  yours.  I  am  sure  it 
is.  It  is  as  though  —  however,  what  you  have 
been  saying  is  true  —  yes  !  it  is  reasonable,  quite. 
Men  may  like  reading  the  New  Testament  as 
well  as  any  other  book  ;  and  may  be  fond  of  the 
excitement  of  religion ;  but  they  are  saved  through 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  only  hf  their  loving  him. 
And  from  the  Scriptures  it  would  appear  that  in 
Apostolic  times  by  some  men  the  truth  was  re- 
ceived with  pleasure,  yet  not  in  love,  and  so  not 
unto  salvation. 

AUBIN. 

Hereafter  the  multitudes  of  souls  will  show  like 
cities  that  have  been  ruled  over  by  the  good  and 
faithful  men  of  ten  talents  and  of  6ve.  And  it 
will  be  seen  how  our  minds  are  profiting  now 
under  the  rulers  of  the  world  of  thought 

MARHAM. 

And  not  ungratefully,  I  hope,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

No  soul  can  profit  much  while  it  is  ungrateful ; 
for  while  it  is  so,  it  can  be  the  better  neither  frr 
a  friend  to  talk  with,  nor  for  a  poet  to  feel  with, 
nor  for  a  philosopher  to  think  with,  nor  even  for 


EUTHANASY.  261 

that  first-born  of  every  creature  whom  men  are 
saved  by.  Praise  to  the  men,  then,  for  whose 
writings  I  am  the  better  !  I  have  in  me  thoughts 
of  their  thinking,  and  they  have  from  me  dear 
love  of  mine  ;  and  so  we  are  members  one  of 
another,  —  yes,  we  are,  though  we  have  never 
seen  one  another.  And  so  we  are  members  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  and  none  the  less  surely 
for  our  never  having  seen  it.  But  it  is  to  be  felt 
by  us,  of  ourselves,  and,  O,  so  plainly  and  so 
happily  by  the  help  of  some  few  greater  souls 
from  amongst  us  !  Blessings  on  them,  whether  in 
this  world  or  the  next !  Blessings  on  them  from 
the  Highest ! 


dOS  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

We  are  what  suns,  and  winds,  and  waters  make  us. 
The  mountains  are  our  sponsors,  and  the  rills 
Faahion  and  win  their  nursling  with  their  smiles. 

W.  S.  LANDoa 

The  soul  of  man  is  larger  than  the  sky, 
Deeper  than  ocean,  or  the  abysmal  dark 
Of  the  unfathomed  centre.    Like  that  ark, 
Which  in  its  sacred  hold  uplifted  high, 
O'er  the  drowned  hills,  the  human  family, 
And  stock  reserved  of  every  living  kind, 
So  in  the  compass  of  the  single  mind 
The  seeds  and  pregnant  forms  in  essence  lie, 
That  make  all  worlds.  —  Hartley  Colkbidgb. 

AUBIN. 

O  THIS  summer  day  !  It  is  a  great  calm  in 
nature.  There  is  not  a  bird  in  the  air  that  I  can 
see.  Listen  !  How  still  it  is  !  There  is  noth- 
ing to  be  heard  but  the  two  or  three  flies  in  the 
room  here.  So  quiet,  yet  so  earnest,  life  feels  to 
me  just  now.  There  is  such  sublimity  in  a  day 
like  this.  To  me  the  stillness  of  it  is  like  the 
peace  of  God.  I  feel  as  though  brooded  over 
by  almightiness.  And  the  bright  light  is  God's 
presence  about  me,  looking  my  spirit  through  and 
through. 

MARHAM. 

To  me  sometimes  a  calm  like  this  feels  awful 
almost,  —  and  like  a  lull  in  a  storm.  The  world 
is  so  vast,  that 


EUTHANASY.  263 

AUBIN. 

The  universe  is  great,  but  it  is  greatness  of  my 
own  that  I  see  in  it ;  it  is  glorious,  but  it  is  glory 
of  my  own  that  it  is  bright  with  ;  it  is  wisdom  in 
motion,  but  it  is  knowledge  of  mine  which  it 
moves  to  ;  for  the  mind  that  is  in  it  all  I  am  made 
with,  and  the  Maker  of  it  is  my  Father. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  better  to  speak  of  the  grandeur  of  the 
soul  in  Scriptural  language  ;  for  so  it  sounds  less 
presumptuous,  and  perhaps  is  so.  We  men  are 
made  in  the  image  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  more  nobly  than  the  universe.  For 
there  must  be  a  something  of  infinity  in  what  is 
a  likeness  of  the  infinite.  Yes,  man's  is  a  des- 
tiny more  lasting  than  that  of  suns  and  planets. 
Nay,  I  do  not  doubt  but  that,  in  the  eye  of  an 
angel  rejoicing  over  these  lower  treasures  of  God, 
there  are  some  souls  that  already  are  counted  be- 
fore the  earth  and  the  sun.  My  nature,  —  it  is 
not  only  what  I  am,  but  what  I  may  be.  Ay, 
what  I  may  be  !  To  the  greatness  of  that,  this 
world  is  little  ;  Alps  and  Andes  though  it  be, 
Mediterranean  and  Atlantic,  American  woods  and 
Arctic  snows. 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps  so,  Oliver.  But  something  else  is  true. 
You  may  see  thousands  of  other  worlds  at  night, 


264  EUTHANASY. 

but  you  cannot  visit  one.  Earth  owns  you,  and 
holds  you  to  her  ;  and  she  scorches  you  by  turn 
ing  you  to  the  sun,  and  freezes  you  by  letting  her 
north  wind  against  you.  With  her  west  wind  you 
are  gladdened,  and  with  her  east  wind  you  are 
withered,  and  with  her  speed  you  are  carried  cap- 
tive over  the  fields  of  space. 

AUBIN. 

True  ;  but  then  the  earth  does  not  know  her- 
self, but  I  know  her  ;  her  own  course  she  does 
not  know,  but  I  know  it ;  and  her  swiftness  in  it 
she  does  not  know,  but  I  know  it,  to  a  yard  and  a 
moment.  And  so  I  am  the  earth's  better.  Yes, 
and  what  are  laws  over  her  are  service  for  me  ; 
and  the  expansiveness  of  water  is  my  swiftness. 

MARHAM. 

You  have  said  well  and  ingeniously,  and,  Oli- 
ver, much  to  my  pleasure  ;  for  the  soul  is  greater 
than  the  earth.  And  I  do  believe  that  there  are 
eyes,  in  which  even  the  first  thought  of  a  child  is 
so  bright  as  to  eclipse  the  sun  and  moon.  But 
these  are  feelings  that  are  perhaps  unsafe  for  us, 
except  upon  our  knees,  and  with  our  faces  in  our 
hands. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  from  out  of  the  depth  of  our  humility 
that  the  height  of  our  destiny  looks  grandest. 
For  let  me  truly  feel  that  in  myself  I  am  nothing, 
and  at  once,  through  every  inlet  of  my  soul,  God 


EUTHANASY.  265 

comes  in  and  is  every  thing  in  me.  Weak,  very 
weak,  I  am,  and  I  would  not  be  otherwise,  if  only 
I  can  keep  looking  towards  righteousness  ;  —  this 
is  what  1  think  sometimes  ;  and  as  soon  as  I  feel 
this,  the  almightiness  of  God  pours  through  my 
spirit  like  a  stream,  and  I  am  free,  and  I  am  joy- 
ful, and  I  can  do  all  things  through  Him  that 
strengtheneth  me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  what  God  is  in  the  earth  and  the  sea, 
that  and  more  than  that  he  is  in  the  soul,  —  in 
the  humble  soul. 

AUBIN. 

God  is  the  centre  of  all  truth,  and  so  it  is  to 
be  most  largely  seen  from  nighest  him. 

MARHAM. 

To  moral  and  to  religious  worth,  humility  is  an 
essential,  and  h  is  quite  needful  for  the  best  uses 
of  the  intellect. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is,  and  many  an  instance  would  show  it ; 
but  they  are  not  necessary  to  tell  of.  If  the  soul 
has  God  within  it,  then  there  is  in  it  an  affinity 
with  all  truth  in  science,  philosophy,  art,  and  re- 
hgion.  God's  I  am,  —  God's  everlastingly,  — 
God's  to  grow  for  ever.  There  will  grow  in  me 
the  whole  wisdom  in  which  this  world  is  made  ; 
and  the  workings  of  my  mind  will  be  as  grand  as 
starry  movements  some  time. 


266  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  dear  Oliver,  your  words  are  so  high! 
I  do  not  mean  irreverent  ;  but  they  sound  as 
though  they  could  not  be  used  in  prayer,  and 
our  thoughts  should  not  be  too  proud  for  that,  if 
we  can  help  it. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  there  have  been  worshippers  whose  na- 
ture it  was  to  adore  God  from  the  tops  of  lofty 
towers.  It  was  on  the  highest  hill  in  Jerusalem 
the  temple  was  built.  It  was  in  a  mountain  that 
Moses  talked  with  God.  And  it  was  up  into 
a  mountain  Jesus  Christ  went  to  pray,  himself 
alone,  one  greater  time.  And  it  is  from  the 
loftier  of  my  contemplations  that  God  feels  most 
adorable.  And  it  is  in  the  thought  of  what  he 
will  make  me,  that  I  am  most  awed  by  what  he 
is  himself,  and  must  be. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  a  right  feeling,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

An  archangel  has  perhaps  a  telescopic  eye, 
that  makes  a  familiar  thing  of  a  field  like  our  so- 
lar system  ;  he  knows  the  plan  of  the  ages  in 
many  a  world  ;  he  feels  principalities  and  powers 
like  dust  beneath  him  ;  yet  in  the  magnitude  of 
his  mind  God  is  but  magnified  the  more  :  just  as 
we  mortals,  going  up  into  a  mountain,  see  the 
more  plainly  that  it  is  not  on  the  horizon  of  the 


EUTHANASy.  267 

earth  that  the  dome  of  the  firmament  rests,  as 
children  think.  From  his  exahation,  the  archan- 
gel does  but  abase  himself  the  more  ;  and  he 
climbs  the  higher,  but  to  look  the  wider,  and  to 
cry  the  more  awfully,  — O  the  depth  of  the  rich- 
es both  of  the  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  God ! 
And  so  again  he  rises  still  higher  ;  for  it  is  not 
in  this  world  only  that  he  who  abases  himself  is 
exalted. 

BIARHAM. 

It  is  so,  and  only  so,  that  weakness  is  made 
strong  in  the  world  of  spirit.  O,  it  is  a  happy 
thing  to  feel  ourselves  helpless  and  naught,  for 
then  the  presence  of  God  is  felt  to  wrap  us  about 
so  lovingly  !  Everlasting,  infinite,  almighty,  — 
these  are  words  that  strengthen  us  with  speaking 
them. 

AUBIN. 

All  in  all,  God  is  the  soul  of  our  souls,  and 
the  life  of  nature. 

MARHAM. 

Of  all,  and  through  all,  and  in  us  all,  and  the 
giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift. 

AUBIN. 

Yes.  God  is  in  the  frost,  and  when  the  sav- 
age is  starved  into  a  habit  of  forethought,  it  is  a 
lesson  from  the  Father  of  spirits  which  he  has 
had.  Astronomy  is  acquaintance  with  the  laws 
of  the  stars,  and  those  laws  are  the  wisdom  and 


268  EUTHANASY. 

the  almightiness  of  God  ;  so  that  knowledge  oi 
them   is    fellowship    with  God,    in   some    sense 
And  the  same  is  true  of  all  natural  philosophy 
for  it  is  the  philosophy  of  nature  which  is  wisdom 
of  God  in  practice  ;  and  so,  in  attaining  the  knowl- 
edge of  it,  they  are  truths  from  God  we  get. 

MARHAM. 

But  a  very  poor  knowledge  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is,  by  itself.  But  I  do  not  say  it  is 
knowledge  of  God,  so  much  as  knowledge  from 
him.  The  soul,  or  rather  knowledge,  is  quick- 
ened within  us  by  heat  and  cold,  day  and  night, 
and  the  necessities  of  life.  It  is  because  the 
world  is  what  it  is,  that  we  are  what  we  are. 

MARHAM. 

Mentally. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  in  some  moral  respects  our  souls  are 
made  by  the  world  about  us.  There  is  a  likeness 
between  some  appearances  in  nature  and  moods 
of  our  minds. 

MARHAM. 

I  do  not  understand  you,  quite.  No  doubt,  we 
do  not  always  feel  the  same  with  nature. 

AUBIN. 

Tn  ihe  dark,  every  thing  is  shut  out  from  us 
out  thb  omnipresent  ;  and  so  in  darkness  the 
Godhead  wraps  us   round   like  a   felt   presence. 


EUTHANASY.  269 

Sometimes  a  clear  night  is  just  what  calms  me  , 
and  while  I  am  walking  in  it,  high  truths  rise 
upon  my  soul,  like  stars  above  the  horizon.  And 
moonlight  among  the  trees  makes  one  readier  to 
feel  the  beauty  of  holiness.  In  nature,  one  view 
calms  the  soul,  another  purifies  it,  and  another 
sublimes  it. 

MARHAM. 

Night  and  morning,  and  sunset,  snowy  winter, 
and  leafy  summer,  vary  the  look  of  nature,  no 
doubt  ;  but  it  is  possible,  in  the  sight  of  tbe  same 
scene,  and  at  the  same  time,  for  one  man  to  feel 
one  way,  and  another  another  ;  for  one  looker 
to  be  solemnized,  and  another  to  be  made  more 
hopeful. 

AUBIN. 

Just  as,  by  looking  on  the  blessed  face  of  Christ, 
a  happy  person  would  rejoice  more  purely,  and  a 
tearful  one  sorrow  more  holily,  and  a  sinner  feel 
remorseful,  and  a  righteous  man  drink  righteous- 
ness in.  And  so  it  is  with  nature  ;  and  what  it 
makes  in  us  is  most  blessedly  felt  by  the  soul, 
which  is  a  child  of  God,  through  Christ.  O,  out 
in  the  country,  sometimes,  my  soul  feels  wrapped, 
as  though  in  the  arms  of  the  Great  Father.  It  is 
as  though  the  wind  whispered  me  divine  messa- 
ges ;  and  it  is  as  though  divine  meaning  broke 
upon  me  from  out  of  the  clouds,  and  the  hill- 
sides, and  from  among  the  stars.      i\nd   I  know 


270  EUTHAN^SY. 

that  I  am  growing  and  am  destined  to  grow  into 
the  spirit  of  it  all,  —  into  the  brightness  of  the 
sun,  and  the  majesty  of  night,  —  into  the  purity  of 
winter,  and  the  contentment  of  summer. 

MARHAM. 

What  you  speak  of,  I  feel  only  sometimes, 
and  not  every  day.  Perhaps  this  is  through 
some  fault  in  me.  But  they  are  holy  recollec- 
tions which  1  have,  of  having  felt  as  you  describe. 

AUBIN. 

Holy  recollections,  —  so  they  are.  And  most 
trustworthy  is  what  we  feel  at  such  times  ;  for  the 
soul  is  then  in  her  purer,  and  therefore  truer 
moods.  In  summer  and  winter,  day  and  night, 
seed-time  and  harvest,  and  in  the  whole  order 
of  nature,  so  perfect,  it  is  as  though  a  persuasive 
voice  were  always  saying,  "  Trust  me."  In  corn- 
fields and  orchards,  it  is  as  though,  from  among 
the  yellow  corn  and  out  of  the  tree-tops,  it  were 
said  to  thoughtful  listeners,  "  O,  taste  and  see 
that  the  Lord  is  good  !  "  And  the  westerly  wind 
is  like  a  soft  whisper  from  out  of  the  infinite,  say- 
ing, "  God  is  love  ;  hope  thou  in  him."  Then, 
in  the  hearing  of  all  these  voices,  rises  in  my  soul 
the  sweet  persuasion,  "  Dwell  thou  here  with  an 
understanding  heart,  and  die  thou  shalt  with  a  tri- 
umphant one."  Yes,  faith  is  the  easier  for  the 
way  that  nature  makes  us  feel. 

MARHAM. 

From  what  you  have  said,  it  would  seem  so. 


EUTHANASY.  271 

AUBIN. 

Many  of  the  moods  of  our  souls  are  the  deeper 
for  the  effect  on  us  of  the  world  outside  us. 
Sph'itual  feelings  have  the  same  words  to  describe 
them  as  many  qualities  of  outward  nature  have, 
—  pure,  open,  high,  bright,  infinite,  dark,  nar- 
row, gentle,  rapid,  harmonious,  misty,  clouded, 
beautiful.  In  the  soul,  there  is  a  midnight  and  a 
mid-day  ;  and  there  is  a  spring,  there  is  a  sum- 
mer, an  autumn,  and  there  is  a  winter.  Some- 
times in  the  soul  there  are  what  are  like  tempests. 
And  there  are  seasons  in  which,  in  the  mind, 
thought  flashes  like  lightning.  I  think  there  are 
sights  in  the  sky,  and  states  of  the  air,  and  scenes 
among  trees,  and  from  hill-tops,  which  have  af- 
fected my  way  of  feeling  about  hfe,  and  my  fel- 
low-men, and  the  future. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  how  can  that  be  ? 

AUBIN. 

One  season  there  had  been  a  long,  hard  frost, 
with  an  easterly  wind,  making  it  be  bitterly  cold  ; 
but  one  morning  there  came  such  a  warm  breeze 
from  the  south  as  was  delightful  to  breathe.  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  lane  I  lived  in,  and  I 
drew  long,  deep  breaths.  I  felt  like  a  prisoner 
just  free.  I  was  as  one  freshly  escaped  from 
evil.  I  was  cheerful,  hopeful,  and  as  though  the 
whole  world  had  brightened  about  me.     Now  this 


272  EUTHANASY. 

was  what  I  must  often  have  felt  after  frosts,  and 
after  long  rain.  And  I  remember  thinking  it  was 
a  way  of  feeling  which  made  it  readier  for  me  to 
believe  in  deliverance  from  misfortune. 

MARK AM. 

Well,  Oliver,  after  cold,  wet  weather,  on  a 
warm,  clear  day,  I  have  myself  sometimes  felt  as 
though  all  hardships  and  sorrows  were  easily  to 
be  lived  through  ;  but  certainly  1  never  thought  a 
bright  day  was  intended  to  make  us  think  so. 

AUBIN. 

Nature  about  us  is  a  companionship,  which  our 
souls  feel,  and  were  meant  to  feel  ;  for  there  is 
to  be  caught  from  it  a  tone  so  peculiar,  as  to  be 
intentional.  Cheerful  is  what  nature  would  make 
us,  —  not  merry,  nor  melancholy.  Novv  it  is  in 
cheerfulness  that  our  moral  faculties  are  freest,  — 
that  we  most  readily  trust,  and  are  kind,  and  con- 
trol ourselves. 

MARHAM. 

What  you  say  is  true,  I  think  ;  for  as  far  as  I 
can  remember,  there  are  only  a  very  few  sights  or 
sounds  in  nature  that  are  sad,  or  ludicrous,  or 
wildly  gay,  —  only  just  enough  to  make  it  remark- 
able that  the  rest  are  so  uniformly  cheerful. 

AUBIN. 

Birds  do  not  sing  frolicsome  tunes,  though  they 
do  sing  happily  ;  the  song  of  the  lark  is  not  jovial, 
and  the  nightingale  is  not  a  merry  songster.      The 


EUTHANASY. 


27J> 


bleat  of  the  sheep  and  the  low  of  the  ox  are  not 
sad,  nor  yet  mirthful,  but  serious.  Winds,  brooks, 
and  rivers  do  not  mourn  ;  and  if  in  their  sound 
there  is  any  melancholy,  it  is  only  in  Milton's 
sense  of  the  word.  The  tone  of  nature  is  what 
it  is,  for  us  sons  of  God  to  learn,  and  for  us  to  be 
cheerful  from  it. 

MARHAM. 

And  in  nature,  what  things  are  not  to  be  called 
cheerful  have,  some  of  them,  a  moral  effect  on 
us  ;  and  some  of  them  make  us  laugh  in  a  way 
that  we  are  the  better  for.  Yes,  there  is  much  in 
us  which  there  would  not  have  been,  but  for  birds, 
and  animals,  and  winds,  and  trees. 

AUBIN. 

Last  year's  birds  are  dead,  many  of  them  ;  but 
many  of  their  songs  are  lasting  on  in  men  who 
heard  them.  In  my  spirit,  there  are  some  tones 
which  are  the  fuller  for  the  birds  I  have  heard 
sing,  —  the  lark  in  a  morning  in  spring,  the  night- 
ingale on  a  summer's  evening,  the  thrush  against 
a  storm,  and  the  robin  when  tli£  rain  was  over.  In 
my  mind,  there  is  what  has  come  of  my  being  awed 
by  thunderstorms,  of  hearing  the  wind  in  the  woods, 
of  feeling  the  air  cool  on  an  August  evening,  and  of 
sitting  on  the  sea-shore  at  the  flow  of  the  tide. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  of  shting  still  for  an  hour,  on  a  day 
so  hush  as  this,  and  feeling  the  peace  of  it. 

18 


274  EITTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

If  I  were  none  the  better  for  the  world  I  live 
in,  I  might  fear  leaving  it,  as  being  useless  ;  but 
now  I  shall  leave  it  for  what  will  better  my  soul 
still  more.  My  faith  is  the  more  cheerful  for 
what  nature  makes  me  feel  ;  and  nature  is  God 
about  me  ;  so  that  the  cheerfulness  of  my  faith  is 
partly  God's  causing,  —  is  what  I  am  to  be  easy 
in,  and  to  be  sure  that  God  likes. 

MARHAM. 

Not  every  one,  —  and  perhaps  they  are  not 
many  who  hear  the  voices  of  the  four  seasons, 
and  know  what  God  means  us  to  understand  by 
his  so  clothing  the  grass  of  the  field,  —  but  every 
one  that  has  ears  to  hear,  can  hear  and  under- 
stand those  blessed  words  of  Christ,  —  *'  Because 
I  live,  ye  shall  live  also."  But  I  think  you  said, 
that  what  nature  means  is  rightly  felt  only  by 
those  that  are  spiritual,  —  that  it  is  they  who 
know  best  what  the  woods  talk,  and  what  cheer- 
fulness the  birds  sing.  Always  the  earth  is  the 
same,  but  it  may  look  more  divine  to  us  Chris- 
tians than  it  did  to  the  heathen  ;  and  perhaps  the 
purer  men  become  in  heart,  the  more  plainly  they 
will  see  God  in  things  about  them.  But  always, 
and  so  gloriously,  there  will  be  the  light  of  the 
knowledge  of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ. 

AUBIN. 

And  that  light  shines  through  death,  and  showe 


EUTHANASY.  275 

it  to  be  a  phantom  ;  and  it  shines  into  the  grave, 
and  shows  there  is  no  victory  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

O,  if  I  could  only  keep  as  strong  in  the  faith 
as  I  am  now  !  and  then  1  should  die  happily. 

AUBIN. 

If  Jesus  Christ  had  all  power  over  my  soul, 
and  were  present  with  me,  and  were  to  lay  his 
hand  upon  me,  I  should  say,  "Lord,  do  with  me 
what  thou  wilt."  And  if  the  horrors  of  death 
compassed  me  about,  and  frightful  appearances 
of  judgment  took  shape  before  my  eyes,  and  if 
everlasting  death  gaped  against  me,  1  should  not 
fear  if  I  could  look  into  the  face  of  Christ  ;  for 
my  soul  would  be  calmed,  and  I  should  say, 
"What  thou  wilt.  Lord,  —  whether  it  be  Hfe  or 
death,  —  let  it  be  for  me  what  thou  wilt,  —  O, 
what  thou  wilt  !"  And  shall  I  not  feel  this,  and 
more  than  this,  when  I  do  come  to  die  .''  For  the 
Father  will  be  with  me.  And  .Jesus  said  that  we 
ought  tp  be  glad  of  his  having  himself  gone  away, 
because  it  was  to  the  Father. 

MARHAM. 

Christ  in  the  flesh  reappears  no  more  among 
us.  And  it  is  well,  it  is  surely  well  ;  but  to  our 
souls,  he  is  with  us  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
And  the  thought  of  him  ought  to  be  enough  for 
us,  and  a  happy  companionship  to  die  in.  Still, 
I   do  not  wonder  at    Catholic    attempts    to    feel 


276  EUTHANASY. 

Christ  in  the  Mass,  and  in  the  sight  of  paintings 
of  him. 

AUBIN. 

Well,  I  do  wonder  at  it,  because  Christ  is  to 
be  felt  so  blessedly  within  us,  after  doing  his 
words.  And  then  what  Christ  was  in  the  flesh, 
God  is  in  nature.  And  in  the  holier  of  my  con- 
templative moods,  it  has  been  as  though  there 
were  among  the  trees,  and  in  the  air,  and  in  the 
mere  passing  of  time,  a  presence  like  the  mind 
of  Christ.  It  was  the  feehng  of  the  Father's 
being  with  me. 

MARHAM. 

And  with  us  he  is  always,  and  in  death  we 
shall  not  be  alone,  for  he  will  be  with  us.  Per 
haps,  towards  death,  my  fancy  may  get  diseased 
as  well  as  my  body,  and  so  the  world  be  sick- 
lied to  me,  and  there  be  no  cheerfulness  in  the 
sunshine,  nor  in  human  voices,  nor  in  homely 
comforts.  Or  perhaps  I  may  become  both  blind 
and  deaf,  and  have  all  sights  and  sounds  shut  oiii 
from  me. 

AUBIN. 

But  the  Father  is  not  to  be  shut  out  from  the 
soul  by  any  thing  else  than  the  soul's  own  act. 

MARHAM. 

Lord  !  leave  me  not,  neither  forsake  me  ! 

AUBIN. 

Nor  will  he.     Nor  is   it  likely  that  this  earth 


EUTHANASY.  277 

will  be  a  dungeon  to  die  in,  if,  to  live  in,  it  has 
been  like  the  presence  of  God  about  us,  vaguely, 
perhaps,  but  devoutly  felt. 

MARHAM. 

If  I  should  grow  melancholy,  I  will  remember 
what  happy  days  I  have  had  ;  and  I  will  think  it 
is  not  the  world  that  is  altered,  but  myself,  and 
not  myself,  even,  so  much  as  my  nerves. 

AUBIN. 

Desponding  am  I  ?  It  is  from  my  bodily  dis- 
ease, and  not  from  life's  being  gloomy.  For  is 
not  the  sun  shining  ?  do  not  boys  and  girls  play  ? 
are  not  laborers  singing  at  their  work,  at  this  very 
time  ?  and  is  not  this  a  marriage-day  with  many 
and  many  a  happy  man  and  wife  ?  Sometimes 
melancholy  is  greater  than  it  would  otherwise  be, 
through  selfishness,  through  not  rejoicing  with 
them  that  do  rejoice.  And  then,  in  itself,  this 
earth  is  what  we  ought  to  die  out  of  triumphantly. 
For  in  this  lower  world,  has  not  God's  presence 
been  what  rightly  makes  us  long  for  a  manifesta- 
tion of  it,  higher  and  still  plainer  ? 

MARHAM. 

Adversity  I  have  had  ;  but  much  of  it  has 
come  of  my  fellow-men.  Pain  T  have  had,  but 
much  of  it  has  been  of  my  own  incurring.  Dark 
days  I  have  had,  but  then  some  have  been  very 
bright.  And  then  I  have  had  no  suffering  of  any 
kind  but  might  have  been  the  making  of  my  char- 


278  EUTHANASY. 

acter.     So  that  the  general  impression  of  life  up- 
on me  ought  to  be  encouraging  and  trustful 

AUBIN. 

And  a  holy  confidence  in  our  destiny.  Morn- 
mg  after  morning,  God  has  gladdened  me  with 
light,  so  regularly,  these  many  years.  And  night 
after  night,  he  has  curtained  me  round  with  dark- 
ness so  peacefully,  so  blessedly,  that  I  ought  not 
to  shrink  from  death  only  because  the  night  of  it 
is  so  very  dark  ;  for  though  very  dark,  it  is  not 
the  less  divine.  Nay,  at  its  coming  on,  God's 
hand  moves  in  it,  almost  to  our  feeling. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  your  words  are  very  soothing,  and  I 
hope  rightly  so  ;  and,  indeed,  I  think  they  are  ; 
because,  though  lofty,  they  do  not  embolden  or 
excite  me.  And  among  our  thoughts,  those 
which  are  grand  and  calm,  both,  are  almost  al- 
ways the  truest.  But  your  voice  is  soothing,  and 
when  you  talk  of  the  grave,  you  say  the  word 
in  such  a  way  as  to  make  it  feel  like  a  spacious 
home,  instead  of  a  narrow  house. 

AUBIN. 

However,  it  is  neither  for  us  Christians,  nor  for 
us  living  souls.  For  what  is  a  dead  body  ?  It  is 
a  worn-out  garment  of  the  soul.  It  is  what  is  to 
bo  reckoned  along  with  the  clothes,  the  books,  the 
furniture,  the  instruments,  of  a  deceased  friend. 
And  then  the  enrth  does  not  open  into  a  grave,  of 


EUTHANASY.  279 

herself ;  for  it  is  man  who  digs  that,  and  peoples 
it  with  horror. 

MARHAM. 

The  body  returns  unto  the  earth  as  it  was 

AUBIN. 

But  the  soul  rises  elsewhere,  wise  with  the 
knowledge  which  has  come  of  its  earthly  dwell- 
ing, and  sometimes  so  grown  into  the  spirit  of  this 
planetary  system  as  to  be  like  the  rich  germ  of  a 
new  world.  And  such  a  soul  does  not  rise  un- 
heeded out  of  this  earth  into  the  realm  of  spirits. 
That  is  not  to  be  thought,  any  more  than  it  is 
likely  that  new  stars  rise  out  of  an  abyss  by 
chance. 

MARHAM. 

For  every  new  year,  for  every  fresh  state,  for 
boyhood  after  infancy,  for  youth  after  boyhood, 
for  manhood  after  youth,  for  my  old  age,  —  for 
every  change  in  life,  my  soul  has  been  the  better, 
or  might  have  been  ;  and  so  the  last  great  change 
will  be  greatly  the  better  for  me,  as  I  ought  to 
believe. 

AUBIN. 

Rightly  reasoned,  uncle.  Sometimes  our  fel- 
Jow-men  wrong  and  grieve  us  ;  but  it  is  not  in 
them  we  trust  either  for  life  or  against  death.  If 
they  wrong  us,  it  is  because  they  do  not  know 
what  they  do,  —  do  not  even  know  that  they 
wrong  themselves.     It  is  easy  to  forgive  them,  — 


280  EUTHANASY. 

poor  fellow-creatures.  But  what  is  not  so  easy, 
and  yet  is  necessary  for  us,  and  is  a  duty,  is  to 
keep  ourselves  unembittered  by  even  what  ill- 
treatment  we  have  quite  forgiven.  Because  a 
soul,  for  being  bitter,  is  the  weaker  in  its  faith 
both  towards  God  and  man,  and  in  an  hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

Ah  !  if  only  we  did  love  our  enemies,  then 
heaven  would  be  a  natural  hope  with  us  ;  for 
commonly  the  man  who  loves  most  hopes  the 
highest.  I  will  try  to  be  what  I  ought  to  be 
towards  my  fellow-creatures,  and  so  I  shall  have 
joy  and  peace  in  believing. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  And,  O  !  this  world  is  so  beauti- 
ful, that  it  is  like  a  Divine  smile  about  us  always  ; 
and  it  is  so  hopeful,  that  we  ought  to  die  out  of  it 
quite  willingly  and  courageously. 


EUTHANASY.  281 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Sublime  is  the  faith  of  a  lonely  soul, 

In  pain  and  trouble  cherished  ; 
Sublime  the  spirit  of  hope  that  lives, 

When  eartlily  hope  hiis  perished.  —  John  Wilson. 

AUBIN. 

The  gloomy,  gloomy  world  !  And  so  it  is  to 
a  gloomy  man.  But  it  is  a  bright,  bright  world 
to  me  ;  to-day  at  least  it  is. 

MARHAM. 

And  a  very  happy  world  it  would  be,  if  the 
people  in  it  were  as  little  covetous  as  you,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Ours,  ours,  —  the  world  must  be  ours.  Our 
God's  it  is  ;  but  for  a  selfish  man,  that  is  not 
enough,  or  rather  it  is  nothing.  So  many  mil- 
lions of  us  want  to  have  the  world,  every  one  for 
himself!  And  against  this  there  are  so  many 
millions  of  impossibilities  ! 

MARHAM. 

And  if  ive  had  the  whole  world,  there  would 
still  be  our  souls  to  be  saved. 

AUBIN. 

Which  in  some  countries  is  not  a  very  easy 
thing  for  a  man  owning  only  a  few  miles  of  land. 


282  EUTHANASY. 

The  whole  world  ours,  but  without  God  in  it  ! 
Would  any  thing  tempt  us  to  take  the  atheistical 
ownership  ?  You  shall  have  your  own  way  in  it ; 
God  shall  not  mind  you  ;  and  there  shall  be  in  it 
no  law^s  of  right,  or  truth,  or  love,  for  you  to 
know  of.  What  you  are  and  do,  you  shall  be 
and  you  shall  do,  but  without  God  ;  and  in  your 
actions  there  shall  be  no  Divine  end  answered  ; 
and  in  what  you  become,  there  shall  be  no  like- 
ness to  God.  The  world  shall  be  yours,  all 
yours,  but  yours  only,  your  miserable  own. 

MARHAM. 

What  a  thought  !  It  is  what  would  spread  into 
a  hell  worse  than  Dante's. 

AUBIN. 

And  the  opposite  of  it  is  heaven,  —  indeed, 
the  heaven  of  the  Gospel.  Ownership  in  the 
world  I  have  none,  but  I  have  infinite  interest  in 
it ;  for  if  not  my  own,  it  is  my  God's  ;  and  so  it 
is  mine  in  a  higher  than  a  legal  sense.  Yes,  this 
is  the  beauty,  this  is  the  whole  sublimity,  this  is 
the  tender  delight  of  life,  —  that  it  is  of  God's 
governing. 

MARHAM. 

What  says  the  Psalmist  ?  The  earth  is  the 
Lord's,  and  the  fulness  thereof. 

AUBIN. 

And  it  is  mine,  not  in  law,  but  better  still,  in 
God.     I    have   a    use  of  it   with    which    sealed 


EUTHANASY.  283 

parchments  have  nothing  to  do.  There  is  a  tract 
of  land  ;  the  soil  is  rich  ;  the  situation  sheltered  ; 
it  is  well  wooded,  and  well  watered,  and  like 
what  lie  along  Yarrow  ;  — 

Fair  scenes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in  ; 
For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in. 

As  I  look  at  such  a  scene,  at  the  garden,  and  the 
park,  at  the  walks  to  walk  in,  the  old  trees  to  sit 
under,  the  wide  view  to  be  glad  at,  the  meadows 
with  the  cattle  in,  and  the  fields  perhaps  yellow 
with  corn,  I  am  persuaded  of  there  being  in  my 
circumstances  a  grandeur  of  promise  greater  than 
I  can  guess.  For  I  think  to  myself,  God  could 
have  made  the  scene  of  my  life  like  that  ;  but  as 
he  has  not,  it  is  because  it  is  better  for  me  other- 
wise. Plenty,  comfort,  and  delightfulness  are 
withheld  from  me  for  a  purpose.  And  so  I  think 
to  myself,  what  a  happy  purpose  it  must  prove. 
And  from  the  things  which  I  have  not,  I  persuade 
myself  of  the  glories  that  I  am  heir  to.  Or, 
rather,  this  is  what  I  used  to  do  ;  for  now  I  have 
every  comfort  I  could  wish,  through  your  kind- 
ness, dear  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  my  dear  Oliver,  the  kindness  is  yours. 
But  do  not  mention  it,  for  you  humble  me,  —  you 
do,  indeed.     For  I  know  there  is  nothing  I  can 


284 


EUTHANASY. 


do  for  you  that  can  possibly  be  a  return  for  the 
profit  and  pleasure  of  your  conversation.  It  is 
only  for  your  body  I  can  do  any  thing  ;  but,  Oli- 
ver, you  help  me  to  feel  myself  a  soul,  a  living 
soul,  in  a  world  with  God  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

A  world  with  almightiness  in  it  ;  and  so  a 
world  of  infinite  promise  for  us  all.  For  what  it 
is  is  pain  and  poverty  to  what  it  might  be,  and 
therefore  to  what  it  will  be,  or  will  be  followed 
by  ;  for  God  is  the  Lord  Almighty  and  Al- 
brightful. 

MARHAM. 

Almighty  and  Albrightful  !  Whose  words  are 
those,  for  they  are  not  yours,  I  think,  nor  this 
age's  } 

AUBIN. 

They  are  Wickliffe's  But  as  I  was  saying, 
uncle,  I  enjoy  myself  in  other  people's  enjoy- 
ments. One  of  the  happiest  hours  I  ever  had 
was  at  a  village,  one  day,  when  there  was  a  wed- 
ding there.  The  road  between  the  bride's  home 
and  the  church  was  spanned  by  arches  of  flowers. 
The  bells  rung  ;  and  men  and  women  all  spoke 
cheerfully  ;  and  the  air  was  so  still,  as  though 
waiting  in  the  sunshine  to  listen  to  the  bells. 
And  up  through  the  trees,  to  the  church,  came 
the  wedding-party, — the  bride  in  her  modesty 
and  grace,  and  the  bridegroom  in  his  joy  and  his 


EUTHANASY.  285 

Strength.  That  my  marriage-day  could  ever  be 
a  festival  for  a  whole  neighbourhood  was  not  for 
me  to  think.  But  the  general  joy,  and  the  rich 
dresses,  and  the  scattering  of  flowers,  and  the 
thronging  together  of  all  the  neighbours,  and  the 
peace  of  the  bride  and  the  bridegroom,  as  they 
came  away  from  the  church,  with  a  blessing  on 
them  from  their  Father  in  heaven,  —  the  happi- 
ness of  all  this  was  like  my  own,  through  sympa- 
thy. It  was  as  though  my  heart  were  the  larger 
for  feeling  it.  And  I  went  away  from  that  sweet 
village  with  more  hope  in  life,  because  they  were 
creatures  of  my  own  nature  who  had  been  made 
so  happy. 

MARHAM. 

Rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice.  And  what 
comes  of  this  commandment  is  indeed  a  tender 
and  a  holy  joy. 

AUBIN. 

It  would  not  be  good  for  us  all  to  be  outwardly 
happy  ;  nor  would  there  be  room  in  the  world 
for  us  all  to  have  every  thing  we  could  wish. 
But  there  are  some  few  of  us  whom  Nature 
clothes  in  all  her  graces,  and  houses  in  all  her 
comforts,  and  brings  out  to  walk  on  smooth 
roads,  in  love  and  honor,  from  all  their  neigh- 
bours. And  it  is  as  though  it  were  said  to  us, 
"Even  out  of  this  earth  can  you  spirits  be  made 
thus  happy  when  it  is  good  for  you."     And  then 


EUTHANASY. 

the  spirit  within  us  witnesses,  if  we  will  let  it,  — 
"Even  so  ;  and  God  be  thanked  I  But  better 
than  happiness  itself  is  the  soul's  trust  that  waits 
for  it,  —  that  patiently  waits  thy  giving,  Father  of 
spirits  !  " 

MARHAM. 

True,  Oliver,  true. 

AITBIN. 

The  love  there  is  among  dearly  loving  friends  is 
what  will  be  felt  for  me  when  I  am  known,  as  I 
shall  be,  hereafter.  While  I  am  in  this  right 
frame  of  mind,  every  happy  event,  everywhere, 
sounds  in  the  telling  like  Divine  encouragement 
saying  to  me,  "  Thou  art  not  forgotten,  my  son, 
and  for  thee  there  is  a  blessing  with  thy  Father  in 
heaven."  Already  there  are  the  beginnings  of 
Divine  justice  in  our  lives,  and  they  and  our  own 
sense  of  justice  persuade  us  that  right  will  be  done 
to  that  instinct  of  happiness  which  is  in  us,  if  not 
in  this  life,  then  so  surely  in  another.  So  that  a 
righteous  man  in  long  pain,  in  poverty,  or  in  sor- 
row, is  a  sight  before  heaven  that  helps  to  make 
immortality  certain. 

MARHAM. 

And  when  such  a  man  weeps,  and  we  weep 
with  him,  we  feel  so  tenderly  that  God  cannot 
forget  the  sufferer.  Nowhere  have  I  found  anoth- 
er life  feel  so  sure  as  I  have  in  a  sick-room,  after 
my  having  prayed  by  the  bedside  of  some  one 
dangerously  ill. 


EUTHANASY.  287 

ATTBIN. 

From  others  being  dear  to  us,  we  know  how 
dear  they  must  be  to  God.  I  trust  God  cares  for 
me  ;  but  that  he  cares  for  others  I  feel  strongly, 
and  almost  as  though  I  knew  it  by  sight.  It  is 
through  sympathy  with  others  that  we  have  the 
sweetest,  or  some  of  our  sweeter  assurances  of 
Divine  goodness. 

"  MARHAM. 

Have  not  we  ourselves but 

AUBIN. 

There  was  a  man  that  once  injured  me  much, 
through  religious  bigotry.  iVfterwards,  misfortune 
threatened  him,  and  very  pitifully,  for  he  was 
an  old  man  ;  but  it  passed  away  from  him  at  last, 
suddenly  and  very  pleasantly.  When  I  learned 
the  news,  which  I  did  by  letter,  at  once  T  knelt 
and  worshipped  God  ;  and  then  I  thanked  God 
for  the  sweet  pleasure  I  felt.  I  think  I  have 
been  more  glad  in  God  for  what  good  fortune  has 
happened  to  others,  than  for  what  has  befallen 
myself. 

MAKHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  why  should  you,  and  how  could 
you  have  done  so  ?  And  was  it  right  .''  It  is 
very  true  that  you  have  never  had  much  happi- 
ness ;  but  when  it  was  granted  you  at  all,  I  think 
you  ought  


288  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

You  do  not  understand  me,  uncle.  I  did  not 
say  that  I  had  been  more  glad  of  other  men's 
happiness  than  my  own  ;  but  that  I  had  been 
more  glad  in  God.  Because  it  is  long,  very  long, 
before  we  receive  happiness  properly.  For  we 
are  too  apt  to  take  it  as  though  it  were  our  right, 
or  our  merit,  or  some  way  our  own  getting.  And 
then  in  the  first  possession  of  good  fortune  there 
is  the  feehng  of  gratified  selfishness  ;  and  that 
defiles  the  purity  of  joy  in  God. 

MARHAM. 

Hardly  so,  Oliver,  surely.  But  your  meaning 
is  right,  I  think.  The  earth  is  full  of  the  good- 
ness of  the  Lord  ;  and  we  ought  to  think  of  this, 
and  not  merely  of  what  joy  flows  out  of  our  own 
little  fountains,  which  run  dry  sometimes,  perhaps 
through  their  having  been  tampered  with. 

AUBIN. 

To  me,  at  times,  the  happier  this  earth  seems, 
the  surer  heaven  feels  ;  and  for  this  reason,  I  sup- 
pose, —  that  to  be  grateful  to  God  is  to  be  confi- 
dent in  him.     So,  along  with  some  poet, 

I  think  of  all  the  glorious  things 

Which  o'er  this  earth  are  spread, 
Of  mighty  peasants  and  the  kings 

That  under  it  lie  dead. 

O  those  memories  of  the  good  and  great,  —  how  I 
love  them  !     And  how  much  in  the  world  there  is 


EUTHANASY-  289 

to  think  of  and  love  !  —  green  nooks  between 
woody  hills,  with  the  sunshine  on  them,  —  corn- 
fields ready  for  reaping,  —  the  harvest  moon  at  hs 
rising,  —  men  fighting  sublimely  with  the  elements 
at  sea,  and  on  land  turning  them  into  service,  — 
women  in  their  beauty,  and  their  strange,  sweet 
power,  —  firesides  with  famihes  about  them,  — 
the  laugh  of  a  httle  child, — the  fondness  of  a 
Christian  father, — the  sensation  of  reading  some 
very  good  book  for  the  first  time,  and  in  man- 
hood,—  and  friendships,  those  true  ones  that  are 
trusted  in  the  more,  the  more  God  is  trusted  in. 
In  all  these  things,  what  delight  there  is  is  not 
chance,  but  God  ;  and  the  more  devoutly  one 
feels  it  to  be  God,  the  more  it  feels  like  what 
will  last  and  grow  for  ever.  God  in  our  enjoy- 
ment !  O,  then  there  is  a  something  of  infinity  in 
it !  Yes,  God  is  in  our  happiness  ;  and  because 
he  has  let  us  know  of  his  being  in  it,  he  will  be  in 
it  for  us  for  ever.  For  the  Father  would  not 
have  let  us  know  that  his  gifts  to  us  are  from 
above,  and  out  of  an  infinite  treasury,  if  he  did 
not  intend  us  more  than  we  have,  much  more, 
infinitely  more. 

MARHAM. 

So  we  will  trust. 

AUBIN. 

And,  uncle,  so   we   ought  to  trust.     For  why 
are  we  made  to  recollect  past  pleasures  ?     Not 
19 


290  EUTHANASy. 

for  us  to  regret  them  ;  but  so  as  for  us;  out  of 
such  remembrances,  to  hope  in  heaven  the  bet- 
ter. And,  indeed,  our  highest  thoughts  do  not 
reach  what  will  be  the  level  of  our  happiness 
hereafter.  For  every  instant  it  will  be  sublimer 
than  first  hearing  the  organ  in  York  Minster,  and 
more  tender  than  lovers'  faith,  and  more  joyful 
than  a  birthday  with  many  friends  to  keep  it,  and 
more  earnest  than  any  earthly  act  of  self-sacrifice. 
O,  how  free  I  shall  feel  hereafter  !  And  O  the 
truths  I  shall  know  of,  the  beauty  I  shall  see,  and 
the  friends  I  shall  have  !  At  first  our  everlasting 
life  will  be  like  a  summer's  day,  so  calm,  and 
beautiful,  and  long.  But  it  will  prove  a  day  that 
will  last  on,  and  on,  and  on.  And  when  no  night 
comes,  and  we  do  not  get  weary,  and  all  things 
keep  on  brightening  about  us,  as  the  eyes  of  our 
understandings  open,  then,  little  by  little,  we  shall 
begin,  in  awe  and  wonder,  to  feel  what  it  is  to  be 
immortal. 


EUTHANASY.  291 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

And  being  but  one,  she  can  do  all  things  :  and  remaining  in  herself,  she 
maketh  all  things  new :  and  in  all  ages  entering  into  holy  soula,  she  mak- 
eth  them  friends  of  God  and  prophets.  For  God  lovelh  none  but  him  that 
dwelleth  with  wisdom.  For  she  is  more  beautiful  than  the  sun,  and  above 
aU  the  order  of  the  stars :  being  compared  with  the  light,  she  is  found  be- 
fore it  —  "Wisdom  of  Solomon. 

But  understand  thou  for  thyself,  and  seek  out  the  glory  for  such  as  be 
like  thee.  For  unto  you  is  paradise  opened,  the  tree  of  life  is  planted,  the 
time  to  come  is  prepared,  plenteousness  is  ready,  a  city  is  builded,  and 
rest  is  allowed,  yea,  perfect  goodness  and  wisdom.  — Esdras. 

AUBIN. 

I  DO  not  think  you  like  hearing  of  new  discov- 
eries, uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  what  can  have  made  you  think  so,  Oli- 
ver ?  For  it  would  be  foolish  in  me  to  dislike 
new  inventions,   or  newly  discovered  principles. 

But,  —  perhaps Well,   I  will   confess,  at 

first  hearing,  my  feeling  is  not  altogether  pleasure 
in  them.  I  do  not  know  why  it  is  not.  Perhaps 
you  can  tell  me.'  But  you,  Oliver,  — you  rejoice 
in  any  new  discovery  almost  as  though  you  had 
made  it  yourself. 

AUBIN. 

So  I  do,  and  really  for  that  reason.  As  re- 
gards a  machine,  the  best  thing  is  the  invention  of 


292  EUTHANASY. 

it,  the  next  best  is  understanding  it,  and  a  long 
way  after  this  is  the  money  it  may  be  made  to 
earn.  Of  all  inventions,  the  best  thing  is  the  in- 
genuity in  them  ;  and  what  is  noblest  in  all  dis- 
coveries is  the  mind  with  which  they  were  made 
out.  It  is  the  soul  that  is  the  greatness  of  all  hu- 
man achievements.  And  these  great  achieve- 
ments 1  love  to  hear  of,  for  they  make  me  feel 
my  own  greatness,  and  not  presumptuously  ;  for 
in  other  men's  crimes  I  acknowledge  my  own 
evil  liabilities.  Human  nature  is  dear  to  me  in 
every  form  of  it,  —  in  what  is  told  of  great  kings, 
ancj  in  what  I  have  myself  learned  from  a  beggar- 
woman,  —  in  the  prattle  of  infancy,  in  the  eager 
movements  of  youth,  and  in  the  solemn  words  of 
a  man  ripe  and  ready  for  death. 

MARHAM. 

It  IS  because  you  either  have  been,  or  may 
possibly  be,  in  some  such  situations  yourself. 

AUBIN. 

But  then  I  love  human  nature  as  it  is  to  be 
read  of  in  Homer's  Iliad,  in  the  temples,  on  the 
obelisks,  and  in  the  tombs  of  Egypt,  in  the  apoc- 
ryphal books  of  the  Jews,  in  the^  Arabian  Nights' 
Entertainments,  in  Snorro  Sturleson's  Sagas  of 
the  Norsemen,  in  the  Chronicles  of  Jocelin  of 
Brakelond,  in  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  and 
in  Catlin's  account  of  the  American  Indians. 
Not   exactly  as   Paul  meant,  yet  quite   truly,  all 


ETJTHANASY.  293 

over  the  world,  and  in  all  ages,  we  all  have  been 
made  to  drink  into  one  spirit.  If  a  man  is  a  man 
in  head  and  heart,  and  has  been  so  in  action  be- 
sides, then  he  has  an  interest  in  all  human  things, 
and  a  something  of  right  in  them.  What  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  make  a  man  say  in  one  of 
their  plays,  I  myself  feel,  and 

When  any  falls  from  virtue,  I  am  distract, 
I  have  an  interest  in  't. 

It  is  but  little  I  have  been,  or  have  had  an  op- 
portunity of  being.  Yet  when  I  think  of  good 
and  great  men,  sometimes  there  comes  over  my 
mind  a  strange  feeling  of  fellowship  in  glory  with 
them.  In  me,  and  in  them,  there  is  one  soul, 
and  I  have  not  lived  altogether  unworthily  of  it ; 
and  so  in  them  I  recognize  my  own  nature  as  it 
is,  or  else  as  it  may  be  made  by  prayer  and  the 
Divine  grace.  The  end  of  Leonidas,  and  Ste- 
phen's martyrdom,  are  mirrors  in  which  my  soul 
sees  her  own  devotedness.  I  can  conceive,  and 
partly  I  have  lived,  the  pains  and  perseverance 
in  which  the  pyramids  of  Egypt  were  built  ;  and 
so,  in  some  sense,  they  are  monuments  of  the  la- 
boriousness  of  my  nature.  It  is  my  own  way  of 
thinking  and  feeling  that  is  in  the  better  parts  of 
the  writings  of  Fenelon  and  George  Fox  ;  and  so 
from  those  books  is  reflected  the  character  of  my 
mind.  The  zeal  of  St.  Paul,  —  Milton's  patri- 
otism, —  Pascal's   purity,  —  Galileo's  sight   into 


294  EUTHANASY. 

the  stars,  —  the  exactness  of  Cuvier's  account  of 
creatures  that  perished  from  this  earth  more  than 
a  myriad  years  ago,  —  what  King  Alfred  was,  — 
what  Washington  was,  —  the  mind  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers, — O,  what  a  cloud  of  witnesses  these 
are  !  And  how  they  testify  the  greatness  of  the 
human  soul  !  With  thoughts  like  these,  the  more 
my  soul  warms,  the  more  immortal  it  feels,  and 
rightly  ;  for  one  way  I  am  every  thing  that  I 
love  ;  and,  indeed,  altogether  I  am,  almost. 

MARHAM. 

O,  if  only  you  could  have  health  and  strength  ! 

AUBIN. 

And  then,  dear  uncle,  I  should  very  likely  be 
nothing  remarkable.  Because,  for  one  famous 
man,  there  are  a  thousand,  ay,  and  ten  thousand, 
deservers.  Excellence  is  commoner  than  is 
thought,  the  essence  of  it  is  ;  only  it  does 
not  get  expressed,  —  sometimes  out  of  modesty, 
sometimes  for  want  of  opportunity,  but  oftenest 
for  want  of  some  little  knack. 

MARHAM. 

You  think  so  ?  But  is  not  that  as  though  some 
better  souls  had  been  made  for  impossible  pur- 
poses ? 

AUBIN. 

Purposes  impossible  in  this  world,  and  there- 
fore so  highly  presumptive  of  another  world. 
Often,  for  one  hero,  there  are  a  hundred  heroic 


EUTHANASY.  295 

spirits,  only  they  do  not  get  into  action.  Because 
a  hero  needs  five  'hundred  square  miles  for  a 
stage  ;  while  that  space  of  land  is  not  meant  to  be 
only  the  theatre  for  one  man  to  act  in,  but  the  na- 
tive country  of  ten  miUion  people.  And  so  out 
of  a  hundred  persons  who  are  heroical  by  nature, 
one  is  allowed  to  be  so  in  action  ;  and  the  rest, 
through  sympathy  with  him,  feel  themselves,  and 
know  themselves,  and  grow  stronger.  And  every 
thrill  of  their  souls  is  prophetic  of  the  high  use 
which  God  will  make  of  them  all  hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  well  argued,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

If  a  man  does  earnestly  what  duty  he  has  to 
do,  then  he  is  any  and  every  character  that  he 
truly  loves, — he  is  Howard,  the  philanthropist, 
and  Sidney,  the  patriot,  and  John,  the  Apostle. 

MARHAM. 

You  cannot  mean 

AUBIN. 

That  he  is  those  men,  or  what  they  really 
were  ;  but  I  mean  that  he  is,  and  is  truly,  what 
they  seem  to  him.  As  soon  as  I  do  thoroughly 
understand  and  feel  Bacon's  Essays,  they  may 
be  regarded  as  utterances,  —  no  !  every  thing  but 
that.  They  may  then  stand  as  the  measure  of 
my  wisdom,  — no  !  not  that  ;  but  they  may  be 
regarded  as  the  manner  in  which  I  should  myself 


296  EUTHANASY. 

think,  if  only  some  little  change,  some  slight  free- 
dom, were  wrought  within  m^  soul.  How  grand 
that  engraving  from  Michael  Angelo  is  !  And, 
O,  what  purity,  what  unearthly  beauty,  what 
heavenly-mindedness,  there  is  in  that  Madonna  of 
Correggio  !  But  what  I  see  in  these  pictures  is 
what  I  feel  in  my  own  mind  ;  and  what  I  feel 
while  looking  at  them  is  what  1  am  capable  of 
feeling  in  other  things,  —  in  duty,  in  virtuous  as- 
pirations, in  my  prayers  to  God,  and  in  my  hymns 
to  him,  and  in  my  thoughts  of  an  hereafter. 

MARIIAM. 

Oliver,  I  think  the  artist  will  be  more  availing 
in  the  world  than  he  has  ever  been  ;  religiously, 
I  mean. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  I  think,  uncle.  But  I  do  not  think 
the  Puritans  were  wrong  in  their  age  for  dashing 
out  painted  windows,  and  removing  pictures  from 
churches,  and  pulling  down  organs,  and  unfrock- 
ing the  choristers,  and  white-washing  gilded  orna- 
ments ;  because  it  is  possible  a  worshipper  in  a 
church  may  be  the  worse  for  such  things  as  these  ; 
and,  indeed,  he  will  be  greatly  the  worse  for  them, 
unless  he  is  earnest  and  enlightened.  I  think, 
uncle,  I  have  noticed,  that,  wherever  there  is  a 
great  taste  for  music  or  painting,  character  is  the 
better,  or  else  very  much  the  worse  for  it.  One 
Of  two  persons  I  know,  the  tone  of  whose  minds 


EUTHANASY.  297 

is  to  me  revolting,  —  made  so,  as  I  think,  by 
their  indulgence,  —  the  very  word  !  —  by  their 
indulgence  in  the  fine  arts.  A  man's  moral  sense 
must  be  quick,  and  his  reason  well  trained,  or 
else,  in  loving  beauty,  he  will  be  courting  refined 
perdition.  Still,  uncle,  I  agree  with  you.  And 
I  think  there  will  come  a  time  when  music  and 
painting,  and  sculpture  and  architecture,  will  be 
religious  helps,  —  and  more  safely  used  than  they 
were  in  Greece,  and  more  successfully  than  they 
have  ever  been  in  the  Catholic  Church,  or  ever 
will  be.  For  truth  can  be  more  beautifully  ex- 
pressed than  error.  And  then  genius,  especial- 
ly the  highest,  is  rehgious  ;  and  so  it  is  more 
or  less  religiously  darkened,  unless  purely  Chris- 
tian. Nor  are  all  forms  of  Christianity  indifi^er- 
ent.  For  the  state  of  mind  which  Paul  argues 
for  against  the  Jews  is  exactly  the  mood  in  which 
alone  genius  is  creative,  —  a  soul  acting  out  of  its 
own  purified  state,  and  not  abiding  fearfully  by 
customs  and  outward  laws.  Now  when  this 
Christian  spirit  becomes  common,  an  artist  will 
have  that  for  his  usual  temper,  almost,  which,  as 
yet,  is  only  his  genial  and  often  very  rare  mood. 
O,  yes  !  the  purely  Christian  spirit  will  be  the 
inspiration  of  a  glorious  literature  ;  and  it  will 
possess  the  minds  of  sculptors,  painters,  archi- 
tects, and  musicians,  and  make  them  priests  unto 
(Jod. 


298  EUTHANASy. 

MARHAM. 

All  noblest  things  are  religious, — not  temples 
and  martyrdoms  only,  but  the  best  books,  pic- 
tures, poetry,  statues,  and  music.  Very  strongly 
this  testifies  the  truth  of  rehgion. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  not  in  prayer  only  that  the  soul  approaches 
God,  for  it  is  drawn  nigher  him  by  all  the  higher 
objects  it  turns  to.  If  a  poet  will  sing  his  noblest 
strain,  it  is  into  the  ear  of  God  he  does  it ;  if  an 
architect  will  build  in  his  sublimest  manner,  it  is 
a  house  for  God  he  makes  ;  and  if  a^  true  artist 
will  do  his  best  in  music,  it  is  God  whom  he  must 
have  in  his  mind  to  glorify,  or  else  to  mourn  to. 
And  every  earnest  movement  of  the  mind  of  man 
is  upwards,  and  to  God, — making  us  sure  of 
that  Divine  presence,  toward  which  the  soul  is 
meant  to  be  reaching,  and  in  which,  hereafter, 
will  be  its  heaven. 

MARHAM. 

It  must  be,  and  it  is,  —  yes,  what  you  have 
now  said  is  part  of  that  witness  which  God  has 
never  left  himself  without  in  the  world  and  the 
soul.  And,  Oliver,  you  have  pointed  it  out  very 
beautifully. 

AUBIN. 

And  all  knowledge,  properly  held,  points  to 
God.  Science  is  in  our  hands  like  a  Divine 
gift  ;  and,  rightly  thought  of,  it  persuades  us  of 
a  spiritual  world  which  we  are  akin  to. 


EUTHANASY.  299 

MARHAM. 

It  ought  to  do,  —  yes,  it  ought  to  do. 

AUBIN. 

Geologically,  botanically,  geographically,  and 
every  way,  the  better  we  know  the  world,  the 
more  familiar  it  feels,  and  like  a  home  made  for 
us.  This  broad  and  various  earth  a  home  for 
us  to  live  in  !  Then  we  may  heartily  believe  the 
Maker  of  it  to  be  our  Father  Almighty.  Uncle, 
your  uneasiness  at  new  knowledge,  and  my  joy  in 
it,  is  the  difference  of  our  two  philosophies.  You 
plant  yourself  upon  certain  reasons,  and  you  say, 
"  As  long  as  I  have  these  to  stand  upon,  I  know 
that  the  eye  of  God  must  be  turned  upon  me  as 
his  child."  But  some  of  those  reasons  alter  a 
little  with  every  new  thought,  and  so  you  feel  as 
though  the  foundations  under  you  were  uncertain. 
But  my  way  of  thinking  is  this  :  —  as  surely  as  I 
live,  there  is  a  God  ;  and  my  soul  claims  God  as 
more  than  her  Maker,  as  being  her  Father  ;  and 
as  surely  as  my  soul  was  meant  to  feel  at  all, 
God  is  towards  me  what  he  feels  to  be  ;  and  so 
he  must  be,  and  is,  the  Father  of  spirits.  God 
is  truth  ;  and  so  every  new  truth  1  learn  is  fresh 
likeness  in  me  to  God. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  it  is,  and  no  doubt  ought  to  be  so  thought 
of,  notwithstanding  what  Solomon  says  about  the 
sorrowful  growth  of  knowledge. 


300  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

In  science  and  in  manufactures,  new  principles, 
or  fresh  applications  of  them,  are  from  the  Father 
of  liglits,  and  are  meant  to  assure  and  reassure  us 
of  our  near  relationship  to  him.  O  uncle  !  there 
are  glad  and  solemn  seasons  in  which  what  is 
called  the  light  of  civilization  is  to  my  feeling  the 
light  of  God  among  men  ;  and  so  indeed  it  is. 

MARHAM. 

Our  knowledge  is  God's  giving,  no  doubt  ;  and 
our  uses  of  it,  when  innocent,  are  according  to 
his  intentions. 

AUBIN. 

What  is  the  difference  between  savage  and 
civihzed  life  ?  It  is  mind.  This  house  and  all 
the  articles  in  it  are  the  results  of  thought.  In 
every  brick  about  us,  there  is  skill  ;  in  every 
chair  and  table,  there  is  intention  ;  in  this  couch, 
there  is  the  idea  of  the  inventor  ;  and  it  is  not 
only  with  colored  wool  that  the  floor  is  carpeted, 
but  also  with  taste,  and  with  the  perseverance 
and  attention  of  many  hours,  and  many  thinkers, 
—  sheep-shearer,  wool-comber,  yarn-spinner,  dy- 
er, designer,  and  weaver.  Why  does  my  shirt 
differ  from  green  plants  in  a  hemp  field  ;  or  this 
pair  of  shoes  from  a  yard  of  ox-hide  ?  By  the 
ingenuity  in  them.  Why,  what  way  of  life  we 
really  are  living  is  much  more  spiritual  than  we 
often  think  it. 


EUTHANASY.  301 

MARHABI. 

So  it  is,  Oliver  ;  so  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

Man  might  have  been  created  with  the  strength 
of  an  elephant,  and  the  swiftness  of  an  antelope, 
and  with  clothing  as  strong  as  what  the  rhinoceros 
wears,  and  as  light  as  the  plumage  of  the  bird  of 
paradise,  and  as  gay.  In  his  eye  there  might 
have  been  the  glance  of  the  eagle,  and  the  sight 
of  the  owl  ;  and  so  day  and  night  would  have 
been  alike  to  him.  And  as  in  the  north  the  skin 
of  the  fox  is  of  one  color  in  summer  and  another 
in  winter,  so  the  human  body  might  have  been 
made  to  adapt  itself  readily  to  the  four  seasons 
and  the  five  zones. 

MARHAM. 

Man  would  have  been  made  so  if  it  had  been 
good  for  him. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  good  for  him  ;  and  he  is  made  so,  nearly. 

MARHAM. 

All  the  powers  which  you  have  been  speaking 
of 

AUBIN. 

Are  in  the  human  hand.  The  hand  is  a  won- 
derful thing  ;  and  without  it,  the  soul  of  man 
would  have  been  always  unknown,  and  never 
would  have  known  herself;  because  she  could 
not  have  exercised  herself,  could  not  have  quick- 


302  EUTHANASY. 

ened,  and  struggled,  and  learned.  She  would 
not  have  been  known  of,  although  she  still  would 
have  been  a  soul ;  just  as  we  know  now  that  there 
is  the  same  and  as  quick  a  spirit  in  the  deaf  and 
dumb,  as  in  those  that  have  all  the  five  senses. 
What  delicate  touch  there  is  in  the  finger-ends  ! 
How  well  the  hand  is  made  to  grasp  !  The  hand 
was  not  meant  to  fit  into  the  arm  at  the  wrist 
more  plainly  than  it  is  itself  fitted  to  a  hammer 
and  to  a  needle.  When  the  muscles  of  the  hand 
were  made,  there  was  thought  of  what  work  the 
hand  would  have  to  do  ;  and  so,  as  I  think,  a 
hammer,  an  axe,  a  needle,  were  as  much  meant 
to  become  continuations  of  the  hand,  as  the  hand 
was  intended  to  be  a  prolongation  of  the  arm. 
The  hand  was  made  for  tools,  as  much  as  to  be 
jointed  at  the  wrist.  A  carpenter's  tools,  a  min- 
er's implements,  and  a  steam-engine  are  as  much 
instruments  of  the  soul  as  the  fingers  are.  And 
because  they  can  be  laid  aside,  their  convenience 
is  so  much  the  greater  ;  for  otherwise  they  would 
be  oppressively  many  limbs. 

MARHAM. 

I  am  listening,  Oliver,  and  I  am  wondering. 

AUBIN. 

Saw,  hammer,  gimlet,  pincers,  trowel,  —  the 
hand  of  man  is  all  these  things,  for  it  makes  them 
and  uses  them.  In  the  hand  of  the  first  man, 
there  might  have  been  read,  as  things  that  would 


EUTHANASY.  303 

certainly  be, — houses,  furniture,  forges,  woollen 
clothes,  shawls  of  silk,  mastery  of  the  horse, 
ploughs,  ships,  and  railroads. 

MAKHAM. 

That  is  quite  true,  Oliver  ;  and  so,  for  what 
you  have  remarked,  we  ought  to  believe  the  more 
largely  in  those  Christian  promises  which  sound  at 
first  too  great  for  fulfilment  ;  because  we  do  not 
know  what  our  souls  may  admit  of. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  in  our  souls  there  are  greater 
things,  grander  heights,  and  more  fearful  depths, 
and  more  glorious  issues,  than  even  pride  thinks 
of;  just  as  in  the  mind  of  Adam,  and  unknown  to 
him,  were  the  beginnings  of  the  tents  of  the  pa- 
triarchs, and  the  art  of  Tubalcain,  and  the  life  of 
Nimrod,  and  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world. 

MARHAM. 

From  what  men  are  over  what  they  once  were, 
we  may  well  believe  in  a  hfe  of  the  spirit  to  fol- 
low this  life  in  the  flesh, 

AUBIN. 

St.  Bernard  reminds  his  readers  that  men  do 
not  come  into  the  world  glittering  with  jewels  or 
garnished  with  silks  ;  but  that  they  are  born  naked, 
and  poor,  and  miserable,  and  wretched, — blush- 
mg  because  they  are  naked,  and  weeping  because 
they  are  born.  It  is  very  true,  — it  is  mournfully 
true,  says  the  old  father  ;  but  it  is  sublimely  true. 


304  EUTHANASY. 

I  think.  Let  us  remember  what  we  are  born, 
and  consider  how  we  hve,  and  so  we  shall  feel 
ourselves  greater  than  we  have  thought,  perhaps. 

MARHAM. 

Death  is  spoken  of  as  going  the  way  of  all 
flesh  ;  but  we  do  not  live  the  way  of  other  crea- 
tures ;  so,  in  death,  why  should  we  fear  going  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

Wearing  clothes,  living  in  houses,  working  at 
trades,  —  all  our  way  of  life,  —  come  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  hand  is  shaped.  The  soul  of 
man  being  what  it  is,  his  way  of  living  might  have 
been,  and  no  doubt  was,  foreknown  from  the  make 
of  his  hand.  An  angel  might  have  said  to  the 
first  human  family,  —  "  Work,  —  do  you  human 
creatures  work,  because  you  are  made  for  suc- 
cessful work  ;  for  by  my  foresight  I  can  see  rising 
afar  off  what  you  cannot  see,  nor  I  tell  you  of 
well, — factories,  docks,  warehouses,  corn-mills, 
observatories,  churches,  and  cities."  Man's 
hand  was  shaped  for  the  mastery  of  this  world, 
and  this  world  is  being  mastered.  Now  in  the 
soul  there  is  faith,  —  a  faculty  with  which  for  man 
to  lay  hold  of  the  next  world  ;  and  so  shall  it  not, 
—  this  faith  that  we  feel,  —  shall  it  not  be  evi- 
dence enough  for  us  of  things  not  seen  ^ 

MARHAM. 

It  ought  to  be  ;  and  the  more  we  know  of  our- 
selves, the  better  proof  it  will  be  felt  to  be. 


EUTIIANASY.  305 

AUBIN. 

Was  Adam's  impulse  to  action  a  chance  ? 
Surely  not.  And  was  not  it  true  and  most  trust- 
worthy ?  Yes  ;  for  of  it  have  come  ploughed 
fields,  granaries,  streets  of  houses,  furniture, 
clothing,  and  outwardly  all  that  we  are  of  what 
we  were  meant  to  be.  Now  there  are  impulses 
in  us  that  have  a  spiritual  world  for  their  object. 
Then  they  are  to  be  trusted  to  ;  for  cannot  we 
be  sure,  — do  not  w^e  know,  — that  we  are  truly, 
and  not  deceitfully,  made  ?  A  world  to  come 
we  can  think  of,  and  we  do  hope  for,  and  we  can 
work  for  ;  then  it  is  before  us,  it  is  intended  for 
us,  and  it  is  awaiting  us  as  certainly  as  Memphis, 
and  Jerusalem,  and  Rome,  and  London,  waited 
men's  hands,  to  begin  rising  under  them.  The 
shape  of  man's  hand  was  meant  to  have  for  its 
object  and  reward  all  this  civilized  life  which  we 
are  living  ;  and  just  as  truly  faith  has  for  its  end 
and  recompense  a  life  of  the  soul,  holy,  happy, 
and  everlasting.  Nay,  in  spirit  did  not  St.  John 
even  see  for  us  that  great  city.  New  Jerusalem, 
coming  down  from  God  out  of  heaven  ?  And 
we,  we  ourselves,  in  our  peaceful  moments,  do 
not  we  hear  voices  gentle  and  great,  and  some 
of  them  like  the  voices  of  departed  friends,  — 
do  we  not  hear  them  saying  to  us,  "  Come  up 
hither"  ? 

20 


306  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

We  do,  we  do.  And  the  nigher  we  draw  to 
God,  the  plainer  we  hear  them. 

AUBIN. 

Only  let  us  think  what  kind  of  a  life  it  is  that 
we  are  living,  and  then  eternity  is  to  be  lived 
for  with  almost  the  same  assurance  that  to-mor- 
row is. 


EUTHANASY.  307 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

H-j  saw  through  life  and  death,  through  good  and  ill, 

He  saw  through  his  own  soul. 
The  marvel  of  the  everlasting  will, 

An  open  scroll. 
Before  him  lay.  —Tennyson. 

AUBIN. 

O  UNCLE,  uncle,  I  do  feel  so  weary  to-day  ! 

MARHAM. 

It  IS  from  the  hot  day,  Oliver.  And  you  have 
nothing  to  do.     But  you  are  so  restless  for  action. 

AUBIN. 

But  just  now  I  loathe  the  vyord.  O,  I  am  a- 
weary,  so  weary  !  And  why  must  we  be  doing, 
doing,  always  doing,  —  why  ought  we  to  be  ?  Man 
made  for  action  !  —  he  is  not.  For  thought  and 
feeling  are  the  great  end  of  life.  We  are  to  act 
so  that  we  may  eat,  and  drink,  and  get  ourselves 
clothed  and  housed.  But  we  are  not  to  live  for 
food  and  houses  ;  but  food  and  houses  are  to  be 
striven  for,  for  the  sake  of  living  ;  and  we  are  to 
live  for  the  sake  of  knowledge  and  feeling.  Ac- 
tion for  the  mere  sake  of  doing  is  worthless,  for 
there  is  no  soul  in  it  ;  and  it  is  even  what  a  man 
may  be  the  worse  for.     O,  there  is  sincerity,  and 


308  EUTHANASY. 

greatness,  and  spiritual  growth,  in  quiet,  when  it 
is  not  indolence  ! 

MARHAM. 

1  cannot  understand  what  you  mean,  Oliver. 
You  have  great  aptitude  for  action,  though  you 
have  not  had  much  opportunity  of  showing  it. 
And  then  you  made  work  for  yourself,  and  did  it, 
many  years. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  now,  perhaps,  I  can  talk  usefully  a  little. 
For,  uncle,  I  am  persuaded  that  a  man  must  have 
done  many  a  good  thing  before  he  is  fit  to  say  one. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  you  make  knowledge  to  be  the  end  of 
action,  and  not  action  to  be  the  proper  result  of 
knowledge,  as  the  common  judgment  is. 

AUBIN. 

I  do  not  say  the  mind  gets  informed  by  action, 
—  bodily  action  ;  but  it  does  get  earnestness  and 
strength  by  it,  and  that  nameless  something  that 
gives  a  man  the  mastership  of  his  faculties.  But 
I  shall  strive  and  work  no  more.  I  am  in  a  little 
boat  far  below  the  city  of  life  ;  and  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  return  to  where  voices  are  many 
and  loud.  I  can  only  be  quiet,  and  think  how 
the  stream  of  time  is  sweeping  me  fast  into  the 
ocean  of  eternity. 

MARHAM. 

But  you  are  looking  better,  Oliver,  though  you 


EUTHANASY.  309 

are  not  quite  so  strong  this  hot  weather.  And  if 
you  should  not  get  well  again,  it  will  be  the  will 
of  God  ;  and,  Oliver,  we  must  submit  to  it. 
And  I  am  sure  you  are  resigned,  though  you  may 
feel  it  very  sad  to  be  withdrawn  from  active  life 
so  soon. 

AUBIN. 

But,  uncle,  I  do  not.  But,  indeed,  I  never 
could  get  into  active  life.  For  it  is  not  often  to 
be  entered  whhout  help,  from  such  a  position  in 
the  world  as  I  was  early  reduced  to.  Once  I 
was  asked  what  friends  I  had  of  any  mark  ;  I 
confessed  I  had  none  at  all,  and  so  I  lost  what 
would  have  been  a  fresh  start  for  me  in  life. 
And  then  occurred  to  me  what  I  had  never 
thought  of  before,  but  what  long  ago  Thomas 
Decker  knew  of,  when  he  pondered,  — 

Shall  I  contract  myself  to  wisdom's  love  ? 
Then  I  lose  riches ;  and  a  wise  man  poor 
Is  like  a  sacred  book  that  's  never  read. 
To  himself  he  lives,  and  to  alt  else  seems  dead. 

The  disappointments,  and  the  battle,  and  the  fret 
of  life  are  over  with  me  ;  and  perhaps  my  strength 
for  a  walk  of  twenty  miles  is  over.  But  the  re- 
membrances of  life,  and  the  feelings  that  have 
been  made  in  me  by  living  it,  —  these  are  not 
over  ;  and  a  great  happiness  they  are,  along  with 
this  peace  which  I  have  now,  through  you,  uncle. 
My   spirit  was   not  calm  enough  to  profit   thor- 


310  EUTHANASY. 

oughly  by  the  last  six  years  of  my  life  ;  for  they 
were  often  so  very  anxious.  But  now  I  am  liv- 
ing them  all  over  again  in  thought,  and  getting  the 
wiser  for  them,  and  the  more  Christian,  as  I 
hope.  For  I  can  pray,  and  I  can  think,  though 
I  cannot  work,  —  cannot  stir,  nor  act  much. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  I  am  sorry  to  say  that,  myself,  I  am 
sometimes  distressed  at  not  being  able  to  do  what 
I  used  to  do.  And  often  I  have  been  grieved 
for  you  ;  I  could  find  you  means  and  friends 
to  enter  life  with.  But  perhaps  you  will  be  strong 
enough  yet  to  do  something  in  the  world.  And 
this  is  such  an  age  in  the  world,  too.  For  now 
there  are  so  many  things  doing  and  likely  to  be 
done,  and  such  new  prospects  are  opening  in  so- 
ciety. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  among  men  in  yonder  town,  plans  are  be- 
ing canvassed  and  principles  argued;  and  in  the 
future,  there  are  to  be  seen  the  dim  outlines  of 
strange  and  lofty  institutions.  This  is  an  age  de- 
cisive of  the  world's  future  for  centuries.  One 
true  word  uttered  now  is  mightier  than  books 
were  no  long  while  since.  And  as  the  world 
grows  lighter  with  knowledge,  new  heights  of  ex- 
cellence are  to  be  seen,  and  new  paths  upwards 
are  to  be  found  ;  and  fresh  pinnacles  of  glory 
there  are  for  men  to  discover,  and  to  make  them- 


EUTHANASY.  311 

selves  famous  by.  This  is  true,  uncle.  But  I 
am  not  the  man  I  was  a  year  ago  ;  for  I  have 
other  hopes,  and  other  fears,  and  another  view  of 
life,  than  what  I  had  then.  Now  the  spiritual 
world  is  almost  more  real  to  me  than  this  bodily 
life.  The  infinite  and  the  eternal  are  become 
almost  my  element,  and  in  it  this  round  earth  rolls 
like  a  phantom.  And  it  would  be  nothing  but  a 
phantom,  and  the  men  and  women  on  it  would  be 
merely  spectres,  were  it  not  for  God,  who  is  in 
all  things,  and  is  the  hfe  and  the  reality  of  ihem. 

MARHAM. 

And  the  worth,  and  the  only  true  happiness  of 
them. 

AUBIN. 

What  labor  and  haste  there  are  in  yonder 
town !  Action,  action,  action  !  The  place  is 
full  of  it.  And  it  is  all  for  daily  bread  and  other 
temporary  things,  though  there  is  an  eternal  pur- 
pose which  gets  answered  in  it.  Money  is  what 
the  merchant  and  the  mechanic  think  of  as  the 
end  of  their  labor  ;  but  there  is  a  further  end 
which  God  designs  in  it,  and  which  is  effected  on 
the  men  themselves. 

MARHAM. 

The  strength  of  mind,  the  decision,  the  mas- 
tery of  the  faculties,  which  you  spoke  of  just  now  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.      And  now  for  what  it  is  that  com- 


312  EUTHANASY. 

forts  me.  From  all  activity  lam  not  disabled ; 
and  not  at  all  am  I  invalided  from  the  divine  end 
of  exertion,  though  I  am  from  the  worldly  pur- 
pose of  it. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  plain,  and  yet  it  never  occurred  to  me,  — 
this  twofold  use  of  labor. 

AUBIN. 

This  end  beyond  an  end,  —  this  abiding  pur- 
pose achieved  in  a  temporary  way.  There  is  the 
likeness  of  it  in  a  plant,  which  seems  to  blossom 
only  for  the  sake  of  beauty,  while  inside  the  flow- 
er are  forming  the  seeds  of  next  year's  plants. 
And  in  many  things  the  way  of  Providence  is 
like  this.  Man  and  woman  love  one  another  ; 
and  their  love  is  their  world  ;  it  is  all  in  all  to 
them  ;  and  nothing  further  do  they  think  of ;  but 
out  of  their  affection  is  ordained  the  birth  of  chil- 
dren. And  when  a  child  is  born,  there  is  in  the 
mind  of  the  parents  a  feeling  for  it,  like  what  the 
dove  has  for  its  young.  But  now  this  fondness 
proves  painful,  unless  the  child  grows  towards  the 
excellence  which  its  father  and  mother  worship  ; 
and  so  the  child's  education  is  certain.  Then 
the  child  grows  a  man,  and  a  creature  of  many 
wants,  which  wants  the  man  tries  to  satisfy  ; 
in  the  trial  his  mind  gets  exercised  ;  and  so,  be- 
sides comfort,  he  gets  what  he  did  not  attempt,  — 
mental  strength,  aptitude,  knowledge. 


"EUTHANASY.  313 

MARHAM. 

What  you  have  been  saying  is  so  only  with  us 
human  creatures  ;  and  our  growth  is  so  peculiar, 
it  is  so  much  that  of  the  spirit,  and  so  long,  that 
it  is  plain  ours  is  not  so  much  life  in  itself  as  a 
getting  ready  to  live. 

AUBIN. 

Yonder  town  was  founded  by  persons  who 
wanted  shelter  for  their  bodies  ;  but  it  is  dwelt  in 
by  men  with  Bibles,  —  by  living  souls.  Genius 
is  loving  and  longs  to  be  loved  ;  it  thirsts  to  be 
understood  by  men  and  women,  and  youth,  and 
old  age  ;  therefore,  in  this  craving  for  sympathy, 
there  is  security  that  genius  will  be  communica- 
tive, and  so  the  world  be  the  wiser  and  the  more 
hopeful  for  it.  —  Well,  and  now  men  are  social 
by  nature,  and  they  will  and  must  live  together. 
But  this  they  cannot  do,  not  even  trade  together, 
without  honesty  and  mutual  trust.  And  so  even 
in  the  necessities  of  trade,  justice  and  judgment 
are  rooted,  —  the  same  principles  which,  when 
looked  at,  are  seen  to  rise  heavenwards,  and  to 
be  the  foundations  of  God's  throne. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  in  life,  —  the  business  and  the  pleasures 
of  it,  —  there  is  often  a  larger  meaning  than  we 
think  of.     And  we  even  learn  it  without  knowing. 

AUBIN. 

Often  and  often  God  makes  use  of  us  as  his 


314  EUTHANASY. 

servants  without  our  knowledge.  And  we  find 
ourselves  richly  repaid,  without  our  being  able  to 
tell  how.  And  there  are  some  treasures  laid  up 
in  heaven  in  our  names,  that  we  have  never  even 
thought  of.  O,  it  will  only  be  by  what  grandeur 
will  come  of  it,  that  we  shall  know  rightly  what 
this  life  has  been  with  us. 

MARHAM. 

It  will  be  so,  —  it  will  be  so  ;  and  so  we  ought 
to  be  the  more  earnest  in  every  virtue,  as  we  do 
not  know  what  great  reward  it  may  not  lead  up  to. 

AUBIN. 

Nor  what  higher  virtue  it  may  not  be  the  begin- 
ning of.  For  us  Christians,  it  is  a  law  to  forgive 
our  enemies  unto  seventy  times  seven  offences. 
But  what  is  meant  for  us  is  that  charity  which 
bears,  hopes,  and  endures  all  things.  And  so  a 
Christian  begins  forgiveness  as  his  duty,  but  goes 
on  with  it  as  his  happy  nature.  —  There  are  many 
Christian  things  which  must  be  done  or  held  in 
faith  at  first  ;  but  we  do  not  do  nor  beheve  them 
long,  before  knowing  of  ourselves  that  they  are 
right.  And  then  out  of  that  experience  our  faith 
grows  stronger,  and  reaches  higher  still  for  us. 
At  first,  a  child  loves  his  father's  face,  then  his 
voice,  then  his  talk,  then  wisdom  because  his 
father  loves  it,  then  wisdom  for  its  own  bright 
sake,  and  then,  better  still,  he  loves  it  for  the  sake 
of  God.     We  human  creatures  begin  with  liking 


EUTHANASY.  315 

one  another  for  company,  then  for  playing  to- 
gether, then,  perhaps,  for  being  of  service  to  one 
another,  then  for  our  agreeing  in  temper  ;  and  then 
we  love  one  another  according  to  what  manner  of 
spirit  we  are  of,  —  we  love  one  another's  souls  ; 
and  then  at  last  we  love  the  world  to  come,  for 
the  noble  dwellers  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

Like  a  bud  opening  into  blossom,  —  and  beau- 
tiful and  natural  as  that,  —  is  the  way  in  which  this 
bodily  manner  of  existence  grows  into  spiritual  life. 

AUBIN. 

Always  when  a  man  lives  a  good  life  in  his 
house,  his  business,  and  his  dwelling-place,  he 
gets  to  feel  that  there  is  growing  in  him  a  spirit 
better  than  his  life's  righteousness  has  been,  and 
even  higher  than  this  world  well  allows  his  show- 
ing. It  is  his  fitness  for  the  next  life,  and  it  is 
seen  by  his  friends  better  than  it  is  felt  by  him- 
self ;  and  so  to  all  who  knew  him  he  is  a  witness 
of  the  coming  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  rightly  thought  of,  every  good  thing  in  us 
is  evidence  of  our  being  heirs  of  God.  And  if 
we  do  love  God,  every  change  that  comes  over 
our  souls  is  felt  like  an  earnest  of  the  kingdom 
that  is  promised  us. 

AUBIN. 

The  growth  of  the  willing  soul,  —  how  won- 


316  EUTHANASY. 

drously  it  goes  on  !  There  is  God  in  it.  And, 
O  !  it  is  to  be  trusted  in  infinitely.  Last  night  I 
lay  awake,  and  what  we  have  now  been  talking 
about  occurred  to  me  ;  and  in  the  first  warmth  of 
the  thought,  I  felt  myself,  O,  so  blessedly  the 
care  of  Providence,  and  so  sure  of  glory  to  be 
reached  !  I  felt  as  an  angel  may  when  newly 
made,  and  quickening  in  the  smile  of  the  Al- 
mighty, and  while  he  is  fast  growing  up  the  de- 
grees of  intelligence,  to  where  there  is  not  dark- 
ness enough  for  a  doubt  to  be  in. 


EUTHANASY.  317 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

For  us  the  winds  do  blow, 
The  earth  doth  rest,  heaven  move,  and  fountains  flow. 
Nothing  we  see  but  means  our  good, 
As  our  delight,  or  as  our  treasure  : 
The  whole  is  either  our  cupboard  of  food, 
Or  cabinet  of  pleasure. 

The.  stars  have  us  to  bed  ; 
Night  draws  the  curtain,  which  the  sun  withdraws; 
Music  and  light  attend  our  head.  —  George  Herbert. 


MARHAM. 

What  are  you  thinking  of,  Oliver  ?  Your 
cheeks  are  so  glowing,  and  your  eyes  so  bright, 
that  I  am  afraid  you  are  too  much  excited  with 
your  thoughts. 

AUBIN. 

I  am  trying  to  recollect  something  of  Cole- 
ridge's, but  I  cannot.  But  I  know  the  passage 
begins  with  saying,  that  every  rank  of  creatures, 
as  it  ascends  in  the  scale  of  creation,  leaves 
death  behind  it  or  under  it,  and  is  itself  a  mute 
prophecy  of  the  rank  next  above  it.  Sometimes 
water  freezes  into  a  resemblance  of  ferns  and 
leaves,  and  earth  crystallizes  into  spurs,  like  plants 
and  trees.  And  then,  among  trees  and  flowers, 
there  is  what  foretokens  the  animal  world  in  the 


318  EUTHANASY. 

sensitive  plant,  and  in  the  contractile  power  of 
such  river-plants  as  lengthen  or  shorten  the  stalk 
with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  water,  and  in  the  cir- 
cumstance of  there  being  male  and  female  trees. 
I  think  it  was  Goethe  who  said  that  the  skeletons 
of  many  marine  creatures  clearly  show,  that,  while 
making  them,  nature  was  plainly  intending  a  high- 
er race  of  land-animals.  And  then,  among  these 
creatures  of  the  earth,  there  were  things  to  fore- 
show what  the  better  nature  of  man  was  to  be  ; 
for  the  trunk  of  the  elephant  is  a  rude  hand  ;  and 
the  migratory  instinct  of  the  swallow  is  like  strong 
reason  ;  and  the  faithfulness  of  the  dove  is  not 
unlike  the  affection  of  man  and  wife  ;  and  what  the 
beavers  make  to  lodge  in  is  an  attempt  at  a  home. 

MARHAM. 

Very  ingenious.     Does  Coleridge  say  that  ? 

AUBIN. 

No,  uncle.  But  now  I  do  remember  a  part  of 
what  I  wanted  ;  and  it  is  the  best  thing  he  ever 
wrote,  and  what  ought  to  be  laid  up  in  cedar,  as 
his  nephew  thinks.  "  Let  us  carry  ourselves 
back  in  spirit  to  the  mysterious  week,  —  the  teem- 
ing work-days  of  the  Creator,  —  as  they  rose  in 
vision  before  the  eye  of  the  inspired  historian  of 
the  generation  of  the  heavens  and  earth,  in  the 
day  that  the  Lord  God  made  the  earth  and  the 
heavens.  And  who  that  had  watched  their  ways 
with  an  understanding  heart  could,  as  the  vision 


EUTHANASY.  319 

evolving  still  advanced  towards  him,  contem- 
plate the  filial  and  loyal  bee  ;  the  home-building, 
wedded,  and  divorceless  swallow  ;  and  above  all, 
the  manifoldly  intelligent  ant-tribes,  with  their 
commonwealth  and  confederacies,  their  warriors 
and  miners,  the  husbandfolk,  and  the  virgin  sis- 
ters, w^ith  the  holy  instincts  of  maternal  love  de- 
tached and  in  selfless  purity,  and  not  say  to  him- 
self, —  Behold  the  shadow  of  approaching  hu- 
manity, the  sun  rising  from  behind  in  the  kindling 
morn  of  creation."  Now  that  is  very  beautiful, 
is  not  it  ?  It  makes  me  feel  as  the  angels  may 
have  done  when  they  saw  the  young  world  round- 
ing into  beauty,  and  growing  green  and  peopled, 
as  they  looked  -at  it  from  time  to  time.  It  is  as 
though  I  had  been  one  of  the  witnesses  of  the 
creation  ;  and  I  am  kindred  to  those  sons  of  God 
who  did  see  it,  as  I  know  by  my  being  able  to 
feel  this  way. 

MARHAM. 

Know  it  so,  Oliver  !  how  ?  Though  it  is 
pleasant  to  think  on  the  stages  in  creation,  im- 
proving one  on  another,  till  the  last,  but  little 
lower  than  that  of  the  angels. 

AUBIN. 

How  the  world  was  once  without  form  and 
void  ;  then  how  it  was  shaped  by  the  rush  of 
water  round  it,  and  the  bursting  of  fire  from  with- 
in it  ;  then  how  its  bleak  surface  grew  green  with 


320  EUTHANASY. 

vegetation  ;  then  how  there  sprung  up  vast  trees  ; 
and  then,  in  the  forests,  how  vast  creatures  began 
to  move,  and  when  their  creeping  race  had  died 
out,  how  a  better  and  still  a  better  kind  of  animals 
appeared,  till  at  last  man  was  made  in  the  image 
of  the  Highest,  —  of  God 

MARHAM. 

With  the  earth  given  him  to  subdue,  and  every 
thing  in  it  to  use.  And  so  it  was  for  us  the  earth 
was  made,  though  at  first  it  was  only  the  pasture 
of  cattle  and  the  hunting-field  of  the  lion.  There 
was  progress  in  the  creation  from  day  to  day,  or 
rather  in  one  order  of  creatures  over  the  next 
order.  And  so  we  were  the  last,  because  we 
were  to  be  the  highest. 

AUBIN. 

According  to  an  ascending  scale  of  worth  in 
the  creation.  It  is  this  delights  the  soul.  First 
there  was  made  the  kingdom  of  dead  minerals, 
then  that  of  growing  plants,  then  that  of  active 
creatures,  then  that  of  reasoning  activity  ;  and 
now  there  are  among  us  the  beginnings  of  a  new 
creation  in  Christ  Jesus.  It  is  because  of  her 
sympathy  with  it,  because  of  her  own  progressive 
character,  that  my  soul  thrills  to  this.  And  just 
now  I  felt  as  though  I  saw  age  beyond  age,  and 
height  above  height,  and  glory  beyond  glory,  for 
my  soul  to  pass  into. 


EUTHANASY.  321 

MARHAM. 

1  believe  in  the  soul's  infinite  progress,  though 
I  do  not  think  it  is  to  be  expected  from  the  man- 
ner in  which  the  world  grew  out  of  a  void  into 
what  it  now  is.  Because,  if  any  thing  at  all  is  to 
be  inferred  from  that,  it  would  be,  I  think,  the 
possibility,  some  time,  of  some  creatures  being 
made  superior  to  ourselves. 

AUBIN. 

O,  no  !  but  the  certainty  of  social  progress, 
and  therefore  of  individual  improvement,  and  that 
for  ever,  probably.  It  would  be  as  you  say,  if 
man  differed  from  the  brutes  only  as  they  do  from 
trees,  and  as  trees  do  from  marble  and  iron.  For 
there  is  nothing  in  a  mineral,  which,  at  its  best, 
could  ever  become  a  phnt,  and  vegetable  or- 
ganization perfected  to  the  utmost  would  never 
make  an  animal,  and  the  instincts  of  all  animals 
in  one  would  not  amount  to  reason.  But  reason 
itself  is  not  to  be  spoken  of  so,  for  there  is  no 
high  place  to  which  it  is  not  competent ;  and 
while  above  us  men  there  are  angels  and  archan- 
gels, the  dijff^rence  between  them  and  us  is  not  in 
nature,  but  in  degree,  in  what  is  possible  to  be 
outgrown.  Yes  !  there  was  progress  in  the  geo- 
logical ages,  and  it  was  from  one  to  a  higher  kind 
of  existence  ;  and  now  that  progressiveness  is  in 
the  soul  of  man,  and  may  be  in  it  infinitely  ;  for, 
by  the  very  nature  of  ihe  spirit,  there  is  no  prin- 
21 


33S  EUTHANASY. 

cipality  nor  power  up  to  the  height  of  which  it 
may  not  grow  ;  and  there  is  no  great  form,  into 
the  fulness  of  which  it  may  not  spread  ;  and 
there  is  no  strength,  to  the  possession  of  which  it 
may  not  get.  By  the  image  of  God  upon  me,  I 
am  kindred  to  the  whole  family  of  God ;  not  only 
to  poets,  and  saints,  and  prophets,  but  to  angels, 
and  to  the  cherubim  and  seraphim,  and  to  the 
dwellers  in  the  heaven  of  heavens.  Since  the 
beginning,  progression  has  been  the  law  of  the 
world.  Yes,  and  to  me  the  recognition  of  this 
truth  feels  like  a  troubled  joy,  and  it  turns  with- 
in me  to  a  prophecy  of  my  own  infinite  des- 
tiny. 

MARHAM. 

God  make  us  and  keep  us  worthy  of  it  !  The 
Lord  have  us  in  his  sight  always  ! 

AUBIN. 

My  being  in  the  eye  of  God  persuades  me  of 
my  immortality.  For,  I  think,  there  cannot  but 
be  an  everlastingness  in  every  purpose  of  an  eter- 
nal God.  My  nature  will  never  die  out ;  T  will 
not  fear  it  will  ;  for  no  action  of  God's  ever  quite 
spends  itself,  and  very  probably  nothing  of  his 
creating  will  ever  quite  perish. 

MARHAM. 

O,  Oliver  !  you  forget  it  is  written  expressly, 
that  this  earth  will  be  dissolved,  and  the  firmament 
above  it. 


EUTHANASY.  323 

AUBIN. 

But  God  is  in  the  earth  and  will  outlive  it  , 
and  no  doubt  all  that  is  divine  in  creation  is  im- 
mortal. The  earth  will  burn  up,  and  the  heaven  i 
'*e  on  fire,  and  there  will  be  a  great  void  again  ; 
and  so,  perhaps,  space  be  made  for  the  new  heav- 
ens and  tlie  new  earth.  But  in  us  there  will  sur- 
vive a  something  of  the  former  heavens  and  the 
earth  that  once  was  ;  for  always  there  will  be  in 
us  feelings  inspired  by  them.  And  our  souls  will 
be  sublime  with  the  sublimity  of  perished  moun- 
tains ;  and  they  will  be  pure  with  the  purity  with 
which  morning  used  to  blush  in  the  east  ;  and 
they  will  be  beautiful  with  the  beauty  with  which 
evening  lingered  in  the  west ;  and  they  will  be 
lovely  with  the  loveliness  of  moonlight  among  the 
trees  ,  and  they  will  be  peaceful  with  the  peace 
into  which,  on  summer  evenings,  nature  often 
hushed  herself. 

MARHAM. 

You  are  not  talking  too  much,  Oliver,  are  you  ? 
Do  not  tire  yourself ;  but  do  go  on. 

AUBIN. 

And  the  most  perishable  objects  of  nature  be- 
come immortal  by  having  been  ways  or  points 
through  which  man  and  God  have  touched,  in 
spirit  ;  for  spirit  immortalizes  all  things.  Ani- 
(nals  were  created,  the  later  their  race,  the  bet- 
'er,  till  at  last  man  was  made  ;  and  now  human 


324  EUTHANASy. 

ages  are  improvements,  one  on  another.  But 
now  also,  through  man,  other  animals  Ir  e  to  i/iore 
spiritual  purpose  ;  for  man  sees,  and  uses,  and 
thinks  of  them.      And  as  Bailey  says,  — 

All  animals  are  living  hieroglyphs. 

The  dashing  dog,  and  stealthy-stepping  cat, 

Hawk,  bull,  and  all  that  breathe,  mean  something  more 

To  the  true  eye  than  their  shapes  show  ;  for  all 

Were  made  in  love,  and  made  to  be  beloved. 

The  succession  of  the  five  vegetable  creations 
was  that  of  superiority  ;  and  now  the  last  is  itself 
progressive,  by  its  being  of  more  and  more  use. 
A  tree  ripens  and  drops  fruit,  and  so  perhaps  is 
the  support  of  some  animal  that  comes  under  its 
boughs  ;  but  it  is  of  better  use  still,  when  the 
fruits  of  it  are  gathered  by  man  ;  but  when  the 
remembrance  of  the  tree  is  to  live  in  an  immortal 
soul,  it  is  become  another  thing  than  what  used 
to  grow  and  rot  in  an  unpeopled  world.  There 
was  a  daisy  ploughed  up  in  a  field  at  Ellisdale  ; 
but  through  Burns's  address  to  it,  it  lives  on  and 
will  flourish  for  ever,  — 

"Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower. 

Dead  is  it  ?  The  earthiness  of  it  is  ;  but  not 
what  was  the  daisy  itself,  nor  even  what  likeness 
of  his  own  fate  the  poet  saw  in  its  being  ploughed 
up:  — 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven, 


EDTHANASY.  325 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven 

To  misery's  brink, 

Till,  wrenched  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 
He,  ruined,  sink! 

And  there  is  one  sweet  brier  that  will  live  as  long 
as  the  English  language,  for  through  the  love  of 
Walter  Savage  Landor  it  has  been  spiritualized, 
and  so  become  an  everlasting. 

My  brier,  that  smelledst  sweet 
When  gentle  spring's  first  heat 
Ran  through  thy  quiet  veins. 

And,  O  !  in  this  manner,  many  are  the  flowers 
and  trees  that  live  a  higher  life  than  can  be  touch- 
ed by  frost  or  heat.  And  if  I  never  were  to  see 
a  tree  again,  I  could  always  feel  the  stillness  and 
the  awe  and  the  depth  of  an  American  forest  ; 
for  there  is  a  hymn  of  Bryant's,  the  saying  of 
which  brings  great  trees  about  me,  and  thick 
branches  over  my  head,  and  a  feeling  of  being 
alone  with  God.  The  woods  may  disappear,  but 
the  spirit  of  them  never  will  now  ;  for  it  has  been 
felt  by  a  poet,  and  we  can  feel  for  ever  what  he 
felt,  —  how 

the  sacred  influences 
That  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven. 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 
And  inaccessible  Majesty. 


EUTHANASY. 
MARHAM. 

O,  but  that  is  sublime  !  It  is  what  might  have 
been  felt  in  Lebanon,  when  it  was  holier  than  it 
is  now. 

AUBIN. 

And  holier  and  sublimer  all  objects  grow,  with 
the  growing  holiness  of  the  beholders.  Rivers 
there  are,  the  Yarrow,  the  Otter,  the  Severn,  and 
others,  that  make  unearthly  music  in  their  rip- 
plings,  since  they  have  been  sung  of  by  Words- 
worth, and  Coleridge,  and  Milton.  And  there 
are  birds  that  died  long  ago,  and  yet  that  are  liv- 
ing on  still,  —  the  cuckoo  of  Logan's  hearing,  the 
stormy  petrel  and  the  horned  owl  of  Barry  Corn- 
wall's poems,  and  the  skylark  which  the  Ettrick 
Shepherd  heard  singing,  — 

O,  my  love  is  bonny,  and  young,  and  chaste, 
As  sweetly  she  sits  in  her  mossy  nest ! 

Ay,  and  to  the  last  of  life,  there  is  that  in  nature 
which  there  are  no  words  for,  but  which  is  to  be 
felt ;  and  in  wild-flowers,  there  is  what  the  spirit 
owns  and  is  glad  in. 

Once  I  welcome  you  more,  in  life's  passionless  stage. 
With  the  risions  of  youth  to  revisit  my  age, 

And  I  wish  you  to  grow  on  my  tomb. 

So  felt  Campbell  ;  and  so  I  feel,  though  I  am 
not  old  ;  yes,  I  am  ;  for  age  is  not  years,  but  ex- 
perience and  nearness*  to  death.  O,  I  had  for- 
gotten  Shelley's  poem  on   the   Sensitive   Plant ' 


EUTHANASY.  327 

It  is  a  wonderful  poem.  In  the  beginning  of  it 
there  are  flowers,  —  a  garden  full  of  them,  that 
will  hve  for  ever.  I  have  now  blossoms  in  my 
eye,  but  they  will  be  withered  to-morrow  ;  but 
in  my  mind's  eye,  I  have  flowers  that  Shelley 
has  shown  me,  and  that  are  unfading.  And  why 
are  they  ?  Because  some  little  the  meaning  of 
them  —  what  is,  as  it  were,  the  soul  of  them  — 
has  been  shown  to  my  soul.  There  is  the  lily, 
and  there  is  the  hyacinth, 

And  the  rose,  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare. 

But  O  the  last  part  of  the  poem  !  It  is  autumn 
to  read  it.  All  through  the  verses,  one  feels  and 
breathes  September, — yellow,  and  moist,  and 
decaying,  and  thoughtful  ;  yes,  and  even  the  air 
of  an  autumn  day  is  to  be  felt,  —  the  moisture  of 
it  on  the  skin,  but  also  and  for  ever  the  spirit  of 
it  in  the  mind.  And  so  through  the  immortality 
of  man  there  is  an  everlasting  purpose  even  in  na- 
ture. Forests  may  vanish,  but  the  awfulness  of 
their  depths  will  be  in  my  spirit  for  ever  ;  the  sea 
may  be  dried  up  from  the  earth,  but  never  out  of 
my  memory  ;  and  to  all  eternity  there  will  be  in 
me  what  has  come  of  the  storms  I  have  heard, 
and  the  midnights  I  have  felt,  and  the  brook-sides 
I  have  lain  upon.     But,  uncle 


328  ETTTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

I  will  not  interrupt  you,  Oliver.  I  was  only 
going  to  refer  to  what  St.  Paul  says  about  all 
things  being  discernible  by  the  spiritual  man. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  by  the  spirit  there  is  a  spirit  discernible 
in  all  things  ;  and  if  I  am  spiritual,  then  the  world 
is  a  revelation  of  God  to  me  ;  and  there  is  a 
spirit  looks  in  upon  my  spirit  from  out  of  the  sky, 
and  the  earth,  and  the  sea,  from  out  of  the  sun 
and  the  moon,  and  from  out  of  the  rose.  It  is 
for  the  sake  of  what  we  men  feel  in  nature,  and 
from  it,  that  this  earth  has  been  made.  And  I 
have  no  doubt  that  there  are  beings  purer  than 
we,  who  would  feel  this  world  round  them  like  a 
Divine  presence,  and  who  would,  as  it  were,  see 
the  face  of  God  in  every  direction  they  could 
look  ;  so  wise  and  beautiful  and  good  all  things 
are  really,  and  so  expressively  so.  Sometimes, 
after  I  have  been  praying,  a  landscape  has  seem- 
ed to  me  something  so  unspeakable,  and  what  I 
have  yearned  towards,  as  though  I  were  being 
drawn  into  the  bosom  of  the  Father.  This  re- 
ligiousness of  nature,  —  how  easily  and  touchingly 
does  Jesus  bring  it  out !  We  are  with  him  in . 
Galilee,  and  we  are  anxious  about  ourselves  ;  so 
the  Master  points  to  the  tall,  golden  flowers  about, 
and  says  to  us,  *' Consider  the  lilies,  how  they 
grow  ;  they  toil  not,  neither   do  t';?  y  spin  :  and 


EUTHANASY.  329 

yet  I  say  unto  you,  that  even  Solomon  in  all  his 
glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these.  Where- 
fore, if  God  so  clothe  the  grass  of  the  field,  which 
to-day  is,  and  to-morrow  is  cast  into  the  oven, 
shall  he  not  much  more  clothe  you,  O  ye  of  little 
faith  ?  "  There  they  fly,  a  cloud  of  birds  ;  and 
not  one  of  them  shall  fall  to  the  ground  without 
our  Father, — not  one  sparrow  shall.  And  we, 
—  we  are  of  infinitely  more  value  than  many  such. 
Why,  then,  are  we  so  fearful,  as  though  there  were 
no  one  to  care  for  us,  —  as  though  God  did  not. 
Hark  !  again  the  Master  speaks  ;  and  we  look 
up,  as  he  points,  and  he  says,  ''  Behold  the  fowls 
of  the  air,  for  they  sow  not,  neither  do  they  reap, 
nor  gather  into  barns  ;  yet  your  Heavenly  Father 
feedeth  them.  Are  ye  not  much  better  than 
they  .'*"  Behold  the  fowls  of  the  air  !  Is  not  it 
as  though  they  were  in  the  air  there  still  ?  Is  not 
it  as  though  they  had  outlived  eighteen  hundred 
years  ?  And  so  they  have,  in  a  sense.  For 
through  Christ's  looking  at  them,  they  became 
Christian  thoughts  ;  and  they  have  grown  eternal, 
through  his  having  felt  what  a  lesson  of  Provi- 
dence they  were.  Spirit  as  they  were  at  first ; 
how  all  things  tend  to  become  spiritual  ! 

MARHAM. 

You  mean,  Oliver,  do  not  you,  that 

AUBIN. 

This  earth  was  a  Divine  idea  before  it  was  a 


330  EUTHANASY. 

globe ;  and  before  becoming  earthly  shapes, 
woods  and  flowers,  hills  and  rivers  and  oceans, 
were  thoughts  in  the .  mind  of  God ;  and  the  laws 
of  the  seasons  were  intentions  in  it ;  and  that 
goodness  which  God  saw  in  all  things  on  his 
making  them  was  what  had  been  a  feeling  within 
himself,  first  of  all.  Before  being  made,  all 
things  that  we  see  were  Divine  thoughts  ;  and 
now  they  are  thoughts  in  our  minds,  and  will  be 
for  ever,  though  as  objects  they  will  themselves 
perish.  In  this  manner  does  God  give  himself  to 
us, — impart  knowledge  to  us,  and  inspire  us 
with  feeling. 

MARHAM. 

Your  ideas  are  new  to  me,  Oliver  ;  but  I  like 
them  very  much.  They  make  the  world  feel 
what  T  cannot  express. 

AUBIN. 

Like  the  bosom  of  a  mother,  whose  spirit  we 
have  grown  into,  and  in  whose  arms  we  can  die 
cheerfully  and  full  of  hope. 

MARHAM. 

So  God  grant  we  may. 

AUBIN. 

The  world  God  cannot  have  made  in  vain,  nor 
any  parts  of  it,  neither  clouds,  mountains,  seas, 
nor  flowers.  It  is  as  a  book  for  us  men  to  read 
in,  that  nature  is  not  in  vain. 


EUTHANASY.  331 

MARHAM. 

You  mean  that  God  would  not  have  made  the 
world,  but  for  the  human  race  to  live  in. 

AT]  BIN. 

Yes,  I  think  so,  uncle  ;  and  I  mean,  that,  as 
the  world  itself  is  not  eternal,  therefore  we  our- 
selves must  be.  The  Infinite  must  have  an  in- 
finite end  in  what  he  does.  And  in  the  making 
of  this  world,  we  human  beings  are  the  infinity. 
It  is  our  souls  which  are  the  everlastingness  of 
God's  purpose  in  this  earth.  And  so  we  must 
be,  —  we  are,  immortal. 


332  EITTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Then  woke 
Stirrings  of  deep  Divinity  within, 
And,  like  the  /lickerings  of  a  smouldering  flame, 
Yearnings  of  a  hereafter.    Thou  it  was. 
When  the  world's  din  and  passion's  voice  was  still. 
Calling  thy  wanderer  home.  —  Willums. 

AUBIN. 

Shall  I  shut  the  window,  uncle  ? 

MARHAM. 

Not  for  me,  Oliver ;  for  it  is  quite  warm  this 
afternoon,  though  the  heat  of  the  season  is  over 
now,  I  think. 

AUBIN. 

On  the  hedges,  what  fresh  leaves  come  out  are 
pale  and  hardly  green.  And  as  you  stand  under 
the  elms,  the  inner  leaves  are  turned  yellow. 
And  see  in  the  air,  and  hanging  among  the  trees, 
there  is  that  blue  mist  that  is  so  peculiar  to  the 
latter  weeks  of  August.  How  still  it  is  !  Even 
on  the  poplar,  the  leaves  hang  without  one  stir- 
ring. There  is  not  the  least  wind.  It  is  as 
though  every  thing  in  nature  were  hushed  and  still, 
to  see  summer  and  autumn  meet,  and  part  again 
almost  as  soon  as  met.  There  is  this  meeting  of 
the  seasons  at  every  vine,  and  under  every  apple, 


EUTHANASY.  333 

and  peach,  and  plum  tree.  And  summer  looks  ai 
the  fruits  with  her  large,  glowing  eyes,  and  says, 
"  All  these  are  my  ripening  "  ;  and  then  autumn 
claps  her  hands  and  cries,  "  But  my  gathering  ! 
they  are  for  me  to  gather."  And  for  a  few  days 
they  dwell  in  the  woods  together.  At  first,  au- 
tumn has  only  one  or  two  yellow  trees  to  sit  in  ; 
but  every  day  she  gets  more  and  more,  till,  at  last, 
summer  has  only  an  oak-tree  left  her  for  a  throne. 
Then  comes  a  misty  morning,  and  the  oak  is  not 
green  any  longer  ;  and  summer  is  quite  gone,  and 
the  whole  world  is  autumn's.  And  she,  —  as  fast 
as  she  gets,  she  loses  it ;  and  scarcely  is  summer 
vanished,  before  autumn  is  gone  too. 

MARHAM. 

And  such  is  life,  —  an  appearance  for  a  little 
time,  and  hardly  for  that,  it  is  so  vanishing. 

AUBIN. 

Promise,  —  promises  from  day  to  day,  —  a  rep- 
ethion  of  promises  ;  this  is  what  life  feels  to  me. 
It  is  going,  —  the  summer  is.  O  the  woods  and 
the  hill-sides,  the  meadows  and  the  gardens, 
the  valley  with  the  river  in  it,  summer  morning 
with  its  long  shadows  in  the  moist  grass,  and 
summer  evening  going  away  in  the  west,  calm 
and  sublime,  like  the  last  words  of  a  blessing  !  — 
O,  in  all  these  things,  the  beauty  there  has 
been,  —  what  has  it  been,  and  what  is  it  now  ? 
It  is  God  ;  and  so  it   is  what  my  soul  will  be 


334  EUTHANASY. 

living  in  for  ever,  very  soon.  As  I  sat  here  ana 
looked  at  this  beautiful  scene,  —  and  yet  it  was 
rather  as  though  it  were  looking  into  me,  than  I 
at  it,  —  there  was  a  persuasion  in  me  which  said, 
"  This,  this  wast  thou  made  for."  And  now  I 
know  something  of  how  a  soul  may  gaze  upon 
God,  and  think  of  nothing  else,  and  want  nothing 
more  for  ages  ;  because  the  reflection  of  the 
face  of  God  may  be,  in  the  depths  of  the  soul,  a 
joy  everlasting  ;  and  will  be,  for  all  other  delights 
will  but  make  God  the  dearer,  and  all  other 
knowledge  will  but  clear  our  spirits  to  know  him 
the  better. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure,  Oliver,  to  listen  to  your 
anticipations  of  the  future  life  ;  but  I  cannot  quite 
feel  as  you  do,  for  hope  is  not  certainty.  Though 
sometimes,  while  hearing  you  talk,  I  could  forget 
that  there  are  such  things  as  hell  and  reprobation. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  could  become  a  perfect  Christian. 
Do  you  wonder  at  me,  uncle  ^  Well,  I  do  be- 
lieve there  is  a  hell  ;  but  I  am  not  frightened  at 
its  existence,  for  it  is  not  outside  and  beyond  the 
dominions  of  God.  Even  hell  is  not  so  utterly 
unblest  as  not  to  be  known  to  God.  Painful  is 
it  ?  So  is  this  earth  very  often  ;  and  yet  there 
has  grown  in  me  here  such  faith  as  that,  to  my 
eyes,  hell  itself  would  not  be  without  a  look  of 


EUTHANASY.  33^ 

beauty,  if  the  Divine  hand  pointed  me  into  it,  — 
to  go  into  it. 

MARHAM. 

There  is  a  perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear; 
that  is  certain  ;  for  so  St. 

AUBIN. 

i\nd  certain  it  is,  that  we  might  and  ought  to 
feel  it,  as  well  as  St.  Paul.  Apostle  was  he  .'' 
So  he  was,  and  chief  of  sinners  once.  Religion 
is  not  hopeful  enough,  and  I  do  not  know  that  it 
ever  has  been  in  Protestant  times  ;  presumptuous 
it  has  been  too  often,  but  very  seldom  hopeful. 
And  yet  Christians  are  saved  by  hope,  as  St. 
Paul  says.  Yes,  hope  is  light,  and  strength,  and 
peace,  and  virtue,  and  salvation.  And  let  a  soul 
be  Christian,  be  a  new  creature  in  Christ,  and 
then  it  can  get  for  itself  high,  grand  evidence  out 
of  hope.  A  life  to  come  we  hope  for,  and  so  we 
shall  see  it. 

MARHAM. 

I  trust  so. 

AUBIN. 

I  could  be  sure  so,  if  it  were  only  because  1 
can  hope  it. 

MARHAM. 

Sure  of  a  thing  because  you  hope  it  ! 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  though   you  smile  at  the  notion 
For  how  have  we  come  by  hope  ?     Have  angel:- 


396  EUTHANASY. 

Visited  us  all,  one  by  one,  and  endowed  us  with 
the  feeling  ?  Or  were  we  despairers  once,  and 
did  we  through  some  magic  get  ourselves  made 
hopeful  ?  Has  hopefulness  come  of  any  forbidden 
tree  that  we  have  eaten  of  ?  No,  no  !  It  is  our 
nature.  And  through  making  us  hope  for  immor- 
tality, God  has  made  us  a  promise  of  it. 

MARHAM. 

But  it  is  nbt  to  be  thought  that  all  things  will 
be  ours,  because  we  hope  them. 

AUBIN. 

No,  not  all  things,  and  not  many  things  ;  and 
therefore  certainly  that  one.  I  might  hope  that 
Venus  might  be  the  first  world  for  me  to  live  in 
after  death ;  I  might  hope  for  some  one  particular 
star  to  be  my  throne  ;  and  in  such  things  as  those, 
hope  would  not  even  be  expectation,  and  still  less 
would  it  be  certainty.  When  we  trust  in  the  fu- 
ture, what  hopefulness  is  in  us  is  the  inspiration  of 
God  ;  but  what  particular  objects  we  wish  are 
fixed  on,  perhaps,  by  our  self-will. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  a  wise  distinction,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Hope  is  an  instinct  of  there  being  infinite  good 
in  our  destiny  ;  now,  as  that  good  is  not  earthly, 
it  must  be  heavenly  ;  and  so,  if  faith  is  the  evi- 
dence of  things  not  seen,  hope  is  the  certainty  of 
them. 


EUTHANASY.  337 

MARHAM. 

As  being  an  inspiration  and  promise  of  God  in 
us,  you  mean. 

ATJBIN. 

Yes.  For  promise  of  God  to  us  it  is.  And 
so  I  think  that,  in  life,  not  to  be  cheerful  is  to 
blaspheme  against  God. 

MARHAM. 

Hope  is  more  of  a  virtue  than  is  often  thought, 
and  it  is  perhaps  only  not  the  greatest ;  for  St. 
Paul  counts  hope  along  with  faith  and  love. 

AUBIN. 

There  are  many  evils  which  are  more  than  half 
cured  by  hope.  Hope  brings  good  things  about 
us,  not  so  as  to  be  handled,  but  so  as  to  be 
owned  and  rejoiced  in.  Hope  prophesies  to  us. 
Hope  makes  us  free  of  the  universe.  I  am  a 
pilgrim,  and  life  is* what  I  have  to  travel  over  ; 
and,  O  !  I  have  many  dangers  and  many  wants  ; 
but  hope  is  my  all  in  all,  nearly.  Hope  is  light, 
and  courage,  and  a  staff;  and  when  I  sit  down,  it 
is  a  friend  to  talk  with  ;  and  when  I  suffer,  it  is  an 
angel  to  stand  by  and  strengthen  me  ;  and  when  I 
have  wandered  away  in  sin,  and  repented  and  re- 
turned to  the  right  path,  then  from  hope  I  get  my 
peace  of  mind  again,  and  newness  of  virtue. 

MARHAM. 

Hope  renews  you  in  virtue,  do  you  say  ? 

22 


338  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  because  hoping  for  goodness  is  all  but 
getting  it. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

And  then  the  longing  of  the  soul  would  be 
long,  long  misery,  but  for  hope.  O,  how  my 
soul  used  to  yearn  after  I  could  not  tell  what  ! 
Strange  feeling  it  was  !  Sorrow,  joy,  love,  wor- 
ship, —  it  was  all  these,  —  an  infinite  longing.  It 
was  what  would  have  felt  wealth  like  poverty,  and 
what  no  sceptre  would  have  pleased,  —  a  longing, 
an  infinite  longing,  to  which  the  whole  world  felt 
little  and  nothing.  I  used  to  think  it  was  discon- 
tentment, and  yet  I  could  not  tell  how  it  could  be. 
But  now  I  know  it  was  not. 

MARHAM.      • 

It  is  the  way  youth  often  feels. 

AUBIN. 

And  rightly  ;  for  that  feeling  is  no  discontent, 
but  it  is  the  soul  prophesying  to  herself  her  great- 
ness that  is  to  be. 

MARHAM. 

But  almost  always  this  feeling  dies  away. 

AUBIN. 

Die  away  it  does  not,  though  too  commonly  it 
is  quenched  ;  but  it  is  not  the  less  natural  for  that, 
nor  the  less  meaning.     For  if  this  sublime  yearn- 


EUTHANASY.  339 

ing  of  the   spirit  is  often   quenched,  so  is  con- 
science, so  is  love,  and  so  is  reverence. 

MARK AM. 

And  quite  as  often,  perhaps  ;  for  of  these 
affections,  there  is  in  multitudes  a  much  greater 
seeming  than  life.  O,  but  it  is  sad  to  think  how 
many  souls  I  have  known  grow  torpid  !  In  youth, 
they  were  loving,  and  thoughtful,  and  devout. 
Every  great  and  beautiful  truth  was  welcome  to 
them,  and  their  souls  

AUBIN. 

Were  like  homes  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  perhaps  ? 

MARHAM. 

Almost  as  open,  and  clean,  and  cheerful,  as 
though  they  were.  But  now  they  are  the  lurking- 
places  of  cunning,  and  the  dwelling-places  of 
selfishness  and  pride.  O,  how  the  soul  can  allow 
herself  to  be  darkened  and  polluted  !  It  comes 
of  her  false  service.  For  there  is  the  world 
about  her,  and  she  worships  some  things  in  it  with 
powers  that  ought  only  to  have  God  for  their 
object. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  this  youthful  yearning  of  the  spirit  is 
an.  earnestness,  which  often  the  man  uses  for  self- 
ish purposes.  And  so  through  this  feeling,  that 
ought  to  have  made  him  free  of  the  world,  he 
becomes  its  slave.  This  yearning  in  him  he 
thinks  to  gratify  with  money,  or  luxury,  or  fame  ; 


340  EUTHANASY. 

but  he  cannot.  More,  more,  —  it  wants  more  , 
it  wants  more  than  the  whole  world.  And  so, 
with  all  his  gains,  the  man  but  gets  the  more  cov- 
etous, and  not  the  more  contented.  For  this 
craving  of  his  soul  has  in  it  a  something  infinite, 
and  is  not  for  the  ownership  of  the  earth  at  all, 
but  for  the  beauty  of  it,  and  what  there  is  of  God 
in  it. 

MARHAM. 

I  think  your  explanation  of  the  feeling  is  right ; 
but  why  does  it  rise  in  youth  first,  for  in  childhood 
it  is  not  felt } 

AUBIN. 

Because  it  is  not  till  childhood  is  over,  that 
the  soul  is  a  soul, — grown,  I  mean,  into  any 
knowledge  of  itself  or  its  wants.  O,  I  remem- 
ber, at  first,  what  a  mystery  this  infinite  want  in 
me  was  !  Sublime,  and  sad,  and  loving,  —  it  was 
so  strange  !  It  tortured  me,  because  I  thought  it 
was  a  fault  ;  but  now  it  does  not,  for  I  know  its 
meaning.  It  is  my  soul,  that  is  come  of  age, 
making  her  claim  upon  the  infinite  in  her  right  as 
a  child  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

Hark  !     Yes,  it  is  the  clock  striking. 

AUBIN. 

From  over  every  town,  east  to  west,  the 
clocks  are  striking  the  hour.  One,  two,  three, 
four,  five,  six  !     And  the  Christian  meaning  of 


EUTHANASY.  341 

the  sound  is,  "  Thus  far  on  through  Time." 
And  the  hopeful  thought  it  makes  in  us  is,  "  And 
so  much  nigher  to  Eternity  and  Heaven." 

MARHAM. 

So  we  will  hope. 

AUBIN. 

And  out  of  pure  hearts,  confidence  in  the  future 
cannot  be  too  great.  Because,  what  is  hope  ? 
It  is  what  is  most  worthy  of  belief,  by  its  very 
nature.  For  in  hoping  rightly,  all  that  is  best  in 
us  yearns  together  for  the  infinite,  —  love  and 
reverence,  and  conscience,  and  the  feeling  of  the 
beautiful. 


342  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 


The  wave  thai  dances  to  the  breast 

Of  earth  can  ne'er  be  stayed ; 
The  star  that  glitters  in  the  crest 

Of  morning  needs  must  fade. 

But  there  shall  flow  another  tide, 

So  let  me  hope,  and  far 
Over  the  outstretched  waters  wida 

Shall  shine  another  star. 

2n  every  change  of  man's  estate 

Are  lights  and  guides  allowed  ; 
The  fiery  pillar  will  not  wait. 

But,  parting,  sends  the  cloud. 

Nor  mourn  I  the  less  manly  part 

Of  life  to  leave  behind  ; 
My  loss  is  but  the  lighter  heart, 

My  gain,  the  graver  mind.  —  Henry  Tayloe 


AUBIN. 

Death,  —  the  Greeks  were  afraid  of  the  very 
word  ;  they  would  not  use  it  if  they  could  help 
it ;  nor  would  the  Romans,  though  less  sensitive. 
And  we,  —  we  Christians  speak  it  like  an  un- 
natural word.  And  yet  the  thing  itself,  when  it 
happens,  will  be  quite  a  matter  of  course  ;  and 
for  us  Christians,  there  will  be  no  sting  in  it ;  and 
all  the  bitterness  of  it  will  be  found  to  have  been 
drunk  by  us  long  ago.  For  our  life  is  an  act  of 
dying  ;  and  we  die  just  as  fast  as  we  live.     The 


EUTHANASY.  343 

pleasures  of  boyhood,  holidays  and  half-holidays, 
climbing  trees,  rolling  down  green  hill-sides,  look- 
ing for  birdsnests,  playing  with  snow,  chasing  one 
another,  especially  in  the  twilight,  sporting  in  the 
water,  and  swimming,  — all  this  I  have  been  dead 
to  long,  long.  Many  a  purpose  of  station  and 
fame,  that  was  once  life  of  my  life,  I  am  dead  to. 
Every  month  I  die  to  some  old  object,  or  hope, 
or  delight ;  and  every  midnight  do  I  die  to  a  yes 
terday. 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  in  the  midst  of  hfe  we  are  in  death ;  we 
are  ;  and  it  is  most  true. 

AUBIN. 

But  not  most  melancholy,  nor  as  much  so  as 
your  tone,  uncle.  For  if  Hfe  is  so  very  like 
death,  then  death  cannot  be  so  very  unlike  life 

MARHAM. 

What  is  that  ?  how  is  that  ? 

AUBIN. 

It  is  quite  a  triumph,   is  not  it?  —  detecting 

the  nothingness  of  death,  this  way.     I  will  show 

you  how  it  is.     Our  daily  death 

t 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  what  an  expression,  —  our  daily 
death  !  But  it  is  a  true  one.  And  if  we  lived 
in  the  feeling  of  it,  we  should  not  be  afraid  of 
death  long.  If  only  men  did  die  daily,  then  they 
would  not  die  at  all.     But  this  they  will  not  do. 


344  EUTHANASY. 

But  yet,  whether  we  think  it  or  not,  we  become 
dead  to  many  and  many  an  object.  This  is  our 
mortality. 

AUBIN. 

x\nd  no  sruch  very  sad  thing.  You  cannot  leap 
over  gates,  and  across  ditches,  and  up  to  the 
boughs  of  trees,  as  you  used  to  do.  It  is  no  time 
with  you  now  to  undress  yourself  on  the  bank  of 
a  river  and  jump  into  it,  careless  about  the  depth  ; 
you  cannot  run  a  mile  in  seven  minutes 

MARHAM. 

No,  I  am  sure  I  cannot. 

AUBIN. 

Well,  but  do  you  w  ant  to  do  it,  or  any  of  those 
other  things  .''  No,  you  do  not,  —  no  more  than 
you  covet  a  condor's  wings,  or  Nero's  old  pal- 
ace, or  Samson's  strength,  or  any  other  impos- 
sibility. Then  where  is  the  grief,  or  any  reason 
for  it  ?  Grievous  it  would  be,  very,  if  there  were 
an  impulse  in  you  to  run  eight  miles  an  hour,  and 
you  could  not  achieve  four  ;  or  if,  at  sight  of 
a  gate,  you  always  wished  to  leap  over  it  and 
could  not.  But  as  you  do  not  wish  any  of  these 
boyish  things,  inability  to  do  them  is  nothing  to 
lament.  The  sorrow,  if  there  is  any,  is  in  your 
having  grown  not  to  care  about  what  were  the 
pleasures  of  your  childhood,  and  some  of  your 
youthful  objects.  Now  there  are  those  to  whom 
boyish  sports  are  a  delight  at  fifty  years  of  age,  — 


EUTHANASY.  345 

men  who  are  happy  for  hours  together  In  blowing 
soap-bubbles,  and  chasing  butterflies.  But  then 
who  are  they  ? 

MARHAM. 

Poor  idiots,  certainly.  But  there  are  things  of 
quite  another  class  from  what  you  have  mention- 
ed, which  you  and  I  have  become  uninterested  in. 

AUBIN. 

Have  grown  indifferent  to.  And  grown  into 
this  indifference  we  have,  and  not  decayed  into 
it.  Many  childish  delights,  and  many  youthful 
joys,  a  man  has  no  pleasure  in  ;  for  he  has  grown 
thoughtful,  and  so  in  thoughtless  things  he  is  no 
longer  pleased.  And  is  this,  then,  melancholy  ? 
No,  uncle,  no  !  I  am  free  of  the  hall  where  the 
Muses  live.  They  talk  to  me  divinely  about 
the  arts  and  sciences,  about  what  the  ages  were 
that  are  past,  and  about  what  the  ages  to  come 
will  be  like.  One  Muse  thrills  me  with  her 
voice,  in  singing,  and  then  one  of  her  sisters  en- 
trances me  with  music,  and  from  time  to  time 
they  give  me  nectar  to  drink.  Mortal  as  I  am, 
I  drink  the  drink  of  immortals.  This  is  what 
I  do,  and  often.  So  that  it  is  no  decay  of 
nature,  when  I  am  out  in  the  fields,  if  1  am  not 
eager  after  wild  fruits,  like  a  boy.  Childish 
games  have  no  interest  for  us  now  ;  but  it  is  be- 
cause of  our  interest  in  Hfe,  — the  great  game  of 
the  passions.     Many  things   I  do  not  feel  about 


346  EUTHANASV. 

as  I  did  at  fifteen  ;  but  it  is  because  since  then  I 
have  thought  the  same  things  as  John  Milton,  and 
sat  under  a  tree  with  Plato  and  his  friends,  and 
heard  them  discourse  together.  True,  the  earth 
is  not  to  me  what  it  was.  It  is  no  broad  play- 
ground now  ;  but  it  is  something  better  still,  for 
it  feels  under  my  feet  like  the  floor  of  a  temple 
not  made  with  hands.  Fellow-creatures  met  by 
chance  I  cannot  now  be  merry  with  for  an  hour, 
and  then  miss  for  ever  without  caring  ;  but  this 
is  because  between  me  and  God  the  fleshly  veil 
is  worn  so  thin  that  light  shines  through,  and 
souls  look  solemn  in  it. 

MARHAM. 

Go  on,  Oliver.  You  have  more  to  say,  have 
not  you  ? 

AUBIN. 

There  are  youthful  pleasures  an  old  man  has 
no  relish  for  ;  and  this  grieves  him  for  other  rea- 
sons than  T  have  said,  perhaps.  He,  —  I  may  say 
you,  —  you  remember,  uncle,  your  sports  as  a 
little  child.  They  would  be  no  pleasure  to  you 
now,  if  you  were  to  try  them,  — that  you  know  ; 
and  so  perhaps  you  are  pained,  as  though  you 
had  lost  some  old  and  happy  feelings  by  time's 
having  changed  your  nature.  But  it  is  not  so. 
As  an  old  man,  your  soul  is  not  of  another  kind, 
but  only  greater  than  it  was  when  you  used  to 
clasp  your  mother's  knees.      There  is  no  inno- 


EUTHANASY.  Ml 

cent  happiness  that  a  man  ever  grows  strange  to. 
You  do  not  incline  to  bowl  a  hoop  yourself;  but 
in  showing  little  Arthur  how  to  do  it  this  morn- 
ing, and  in  watching  him,  and  walking  after  him, 
and  now  and  then  touching  the  hoop  yourself,  I 
very  much  mistook  appearances,  if  you  were  not 
quite  as  much  delighted  as  the  child. 

MARHAM. 

So  I  was,  —  that  I  was,  good  little  fellow  ! 
He  is  a  wonderfully  quick  child  ;  is  not  he  ? 

AUBIN. 

Very  ;  and  very  good-tempered. 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  he  begged  me  to  promise  him  another  les- 
son to-morrow,  which  I  did  ;  and  you  must  come 
and  help.  But,  running  after  little  Arthur's  hoop, 
I  have  got  away  from  your  line  of  argument  ;  but 
it  was  you  who  started  me. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  was  ;  and  I  have  seen  that  you  delight 
in  a  hoop  now  as  much  as  you  ever  did  ;  only  it 
is  through  the  fingers  of  your  grandson. 

MARHAM. 

You  have  me,  you  have  me, — you  have  the 
old  man  ! 

AUBIN. 

No,  I  have  not, — not  the  old  man.  Your 
body  may  be  old,  but  you  yourself, — your  spirit 
is  as  young  as  it  ever  was  ;  it  is  both  old  and 


348  EUTHANAST* 

young.  When  a  person  is  said  to  be  twenty,  or 
forty,  or  sixty,  what  is  meant  ?  This  chiefly, 
that  he  has  the  feehngs  of  those  years.  O,  beau- 
tiful is  what  old  age  is  sometimes,  and  nearly  al- 
ways might  be, — the  last  years  of  a  Christian,  a 
man  who  has  lived  in  the  use  of  his  best  feelings, 
who  has  worshipped  God  as  heartily  as  he  has 
loved  his  dearest  friend,  and  who  has  loved  every 
one  of  his  neighbours  like  himself ! 

MARHAM. 

The  recollections  of  such  a  man  are  a  happi- 
ness to  have. 

AUBIN. 

Always  through  his  sympathies  he  can  delight 
himself,  and  be  growing  in  goodness.  There  is 
his  youngest  son,  in  love  with  a  sweet  lady  ;  and 
through  his  child  he  himself  loves  again  like  a 
youth.  Here  is  an  infant  comes  to  him  and  holds 
him  by  the  hand,  and  he  speaks  to  the  little  crea- 
ture ;  and  because  he  talks  with  it  lovingly,  his 
own  heart  in  his  breast  grows  young  again. 
Plough  he  cannot,  nor  sow,  nor  attend  to  farm- 
ing in  any  way  ;  but  he  can,  and  does,  love  his 
neighbour  as  himself ;  and  so  in  the  fields  close 
by,  the  growing  crops  are  a  great  interest  to  him  ; 
and  down  in  the  meadows  by  the  river-side,  the 
grass  refreshes  his  eyes,  it  is  so  green  ;  and  its 
being  so  rich  delights  him  on  the  owner's  account. 
It  is  so,  uncle,  is  not  it  ?  It  is  so  with  you,  I 
mean. 


EUTHANASY.  349 

MARHAM. 

Do  you  think  so,  Oliver  ?    Well,  perhaps  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

An  old  man  may  have  ill-health,  but  so  has  a 
young  man.  And  very  beautiful  in  its  season 
old  age  often  is,  — the  last  state  of  a  man  who  is 
wise  in  life,  having  lived  it  all  ;  who  loves  God 
and  man,  and  man  the  more  reverently  because 
of  God's  loving  him.  And  he  is  a  man,  too, 
whose  heart  is  open  to  all  his  fellow-creatures, 
and  kept  open  by  the  force  of  the  prayers  that 
come  out  of  it;  for  his  family,  and  friends,  and  all 
men. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  —  it  is  —  it  is  prayer  is  the  life  of  the  soul. 

AUBIN. 

The  oak-tree  in  the  middle  of  yonder  field  is 
an  emblem  of  a  good  old  man.  There  it  stands, 
the  growth  of  many,  many  years  ;  inside  it  is  the 
little  stalk  which  opened  out  of  an  acorn,  and  the 
sapling  which  for  years  used  to  bend  backward 
and  forward  with  the  wind  ;  and  in  its  trunk  are 
what  were  its  outside  rings  at  twenty,  fifty,  and 
a  hundred  years  old.  It  stands  aloft  now,  a  full 
grown  oak, — an  object  beautiful  to  look  at,  and 
that  is  wisdom  to  think  of.  Once  that  tree  might 
have  perished  by  any  one  of  a  hundred  accidents, 
—  by  a  careless  foot,  or  a  drought,  or  a  snail,  or 
a  hungry  sheep.     But  it  was  to  grow  to  what  it  is. 


350  EUTHANAST. 

In  the  shade  of  it  the  cattle  lie  ;  in  its  leafy  arms 
birds  build  their  nests  and  sing  ;  among  its  branch- 
es the  wind  gets  itself  a  voice  ;  somewhere  in  .t 
the  squirrel  has  a  home,  and  all  over  the  boughs 
are  growing  what  will  be  his  winter's  store. 

MARHAM. 

But  what  is  the  likeness  between  this  tree  and 
old  age  ? 

AUBIN. 

Just  as  in  the  middle  of  that  oak  there  is  the 
sapling  of  two  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  good  old 
man  there  is  the  heart  of  his  childhood.  An  aged 
Christian  is  not  an  old  man  only  ;  he  is  of  all 
ages  ;  for  he  has  in  him  the  heart  of  a  little  child, 
and  a  boy's  way  of  thinking,  and  the  feelings  of  a 
youth,  and  the  judgment  of  a  man  ;  he  has  in  him 
a  son's  fondness,  a  husband's  tender  affection, 
and  a  father's  love  ;  and  cpnfidence,  esteem,  en- 
thusiasm, —  all  that  is  best  in  our  nature  is  strong 
in  him  ;  for  though  many  of  his  dear  objects  are 
taken  hence,  his  feelings  for  them  are  the  same 
as  ever.  And  through  his  ready  sympathy,  there 
is  no  love  in  the  house  that  he  does  not  thrill  to, 
and  no  joy  in  parlour  or  kitchen  that  he  does  not 
rejoice  in,  and  no  hope  in  any  inmate's  bosom 
that  he  does  not  hope  in.  And  if  his  neighbours 
prosper  around  him,  or  grow  more  virtuous,  it 
is  to  his  feeling  as  though  he  were  himself  the 
better. 


£LTHANASy.  35 1 

MARHAM. 

I  like  to  hear  you,  Oliver  ;  go  on. 

AUBIN. 

Outgrow  much,  no  doubt,  old  age  does.  But 
mind,  —  it  outgrows  some  things,  but  it  does  not 
dwindle  down  from  any.  And  besides  that,  its 
way  of  growth  is  the  same  as  what  makes  little 
children  be  such  as  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  of. 
For  always  out  of  the  heart  are  the  issues  of  life. 
Yonder  oak  is  no  longer  an  acorn  moistening  just 
under  the  ground  ;  nor  a  little  plant  in  the  turf, 
kept  from  scorching  by  the  tall  grass  ;  still,  high 
as  its  top  is,  and  wide  as  it  spreads,  the  tree 
flourishes  in  the  same  way  the  saphng  grew  ;  and 
its  roots  are  under  the  grass,  and  are  kept  moist 
by  it ;  yes,  and  the  heart  of  the  oak  —  the  very 
middle  of  it  —  is  just  over  the  spot  where  the 
acorn  opened.  Old  age  grows  up  to  the  height 
of  thoughts  not  of  this  world  ;  but  then  its  roots 
are  the  same  as  ever,  —  its  sympathies  do  not 
fail  it,  and  the  dews  of  heavenly  grace  are  never 
withheld  from  falling  on  it.  It  is  always  autumnal, 
but  then  it  is  always  shedding  ripe  fruits  ;  and  even 
the  look  of  it  is  what  every  beholder  is  the'better 
for  feehng. 

MARHAM. 

O,  if  I  thought  the  tree  of  my  own  old  age  like 
that,  1  should  sit  under  it  in  peace,  and,  perhaps, 
—  ay,  perhaps  with  pride.     For  pride  is  a  weed 


352  EITTIIANAST. 

that  will  grow  in  shade  as  well  as  sunsmne,  in 
streets,  and  houses,  and  upon  tombs,  and  every- 
where. 

AUBIN. 

That  is  one  of  the  fruits  of  your  wisdom,  my 
dear  uncle.     Excuse  my  interrupting  you,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

I  am  old,  Oliver,  but  I  am  happy  ;  and  I  ought 
to  be  happier  than  I  am.  God  pardon  me  for  not 
being  so !  Few  old  people  have  such  comforts 
as  I  have  ;  and  how  desolate  many  of  them  are, 
—  childless,  friendless,  and  infirm  !  I  am  sure, 
often  I  am  wretched,  when  I  think  what  their 
feehngs  must  be. 

AUBIN. 

Those  feelings,  as  far  as  they  cannot  be  eased 
by  man,  are  meant  by  God,  and  therefore  meant 
for  good.     And  then  they  can  pray 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  they  can,  they  can  !  There  is  no  burden 
of  the  spirit  but  is  lightened  by  kneeling  under  it. 
Little  by  little,  the  bitterest  feelings  are  sweetened 
by  the  mention  of  them  in  prayer.  And  agony 
itself  stops  swelling,  if  it  can  only  cry  sincerely, 
My  God,  my  God  ! 

AUBIN. 

There  is  a  degree  of  distress,  in  which  all  hu- 
man anodynes  fail,  and  friendly  words  fail,  and  the 
best  of  reading  fails  ;  but  prayer  never  fails. 


EUTHANASY.  353 

MARHAM. 

Never,  —  never,  —  never.  But  still,  to  look 
at  a  bereaved  and  joyless  old  man  is  a  melan- 
choly sight. 

ATJBIN. 

Very  melancholy  ;  because  a  quite  joyless 
must  be  a  quite  unchristian  man. 

MARHAM. 

You  do  not  understand  me,  Oliver.  What  I 
mean  is,  that  it  is  distressing  to  see  a  man  spend 
years,  as  Solomon  says  so  touchingly,  which  have 
no  pleasure  in  them.  It  is  as  though  it  were  out 
of  the  course  of  nature.  No,  that  is  not  what 
I  mean. 

AUBIN. 

I  know  what  you  feel  exactly.  And  now  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  feel.  I  see  an  old  man,  a 
widower,  perhaps,  bereaved  of  his  children,  very 
weak,  and  almost  sleepless.  In  the  cup  of  life, 
there  are  only  a  few  dregs  for  his  drinking.  It  is 
so.  And  what  then  ?  Why,  the  cup  will  be  the 
sooner  ready  for  him  to  dip  in  the  living  foun- 
tains of  water,  which  the  Lamb  from  the  midst  of 
the  throne  will  lead  him  to.  Courage,  thou  poor 
sufferer  !  No,  not  poor,  —  but  happy  I  ought 
to  have  said.  For  in  thy  face  there  is  what  an- 
swers to  something  in  another  world.  Yes,  good 
old  man  !  It  is  as  though  it  were  known  to  thee, 
by  some  instinct,  that  Christ  is  just  about  rising 
23 


854  EUTHANASY. 

from  his  throne  to  say,  "Come,  thou  blessed  of 
my  Father." 

MARHAM. 

Amen,  Lord  Jesus,  amen  ! 

AUBIN. 

Whom  the  Lord  loves,  he  chastens.  But 
when  a  sufferer  is  chastened  toward  the  end  of 
life,  and,  indeed,  till  the  very  end  of  his  mortal 
life,  it  is  because  God  loves  him  immortally.  It 
must  be,  and  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  No  !  it 
cannot  be  any  other  way  than  that.  So  that  my 
pain,  —  what  little  I  have,  —  my  pain  shall  be 
counted  all  joy.  And  I  will  reckon  it  so.  And 
cannot  I  easily  ?  I  ought  to  do,  if  I  only  recol- 
lect myself  a  little.  Why  should  I  ever  have 
been  so  impatient  for  happiness  ?  Why  should  I 
wish  for  more  than  I  have  now  ?  Am  I  afraid 
of  my  share  being  given  away  ?  Cannot  I  wait 
awhile  ?  Thousands  of  years  I  had  to  wait  be- 
fore being  born  ;  so  that  to  wait  a  short  while  be- 
fore being  blessed  is  a  very  little  thing,  —  very. 
Ay,  ages  on  ages  the  stars  had  been  twinkling 
by  night,  and  the  sun  shining  by  day,  before  my 
reason  was  lighted  up.  And  as  yet  I  have  it  only 
in  an  earthen  vessel,  — a  lamp  of  crumbling  dust, 
that  is  wearing  away  fast.  Well,  let  it  wear 
away.  For  when  the  flame  in  it  escapes,  it  will 
become  fire  before  the  Lord  ;  and  it  will  be  like 
a  light  set  in  a  golden  candlestick  for  ever  ;  and 


EUTHANASY.  355 

It  will  be  mine,  —  mine  everlastingly.  And  it 
will  nowhere  be  eclipsed, — no!  not  among  the 
radiances  of  the  angels  ;  for  it  will  have  from  my 
life  a  color  of  its  own  ;  and  from  God  it  will 
have  a  beauty  of  its  own,  and  a  glory  of  its  own. 
Wonderful,  very  wonderful,  this  is,  and  yet  it  is 
certain,  that,  from  among  all  the  inhabitants  of  this 
earth,  no  two  minds  are  similar  altogether.  And 
at  the  end  of  the  world,  of  all  the  souls  native  to 
it,  there  will  be  no  two  alike.  Every  one  of  us 
will  have  a  character  of  his  own  ;  and  every  saint 
will  have  a  glory  of  his  own.  And  myself,  what 
I  am  to  be,  I  am  becoming.  Yes,  what  I  am  to 
be  everlastingly,  1  am  growing  to  be  now,  —  now, 
in  this  present  time  so  little  thought  of,  —  this 
time  which  the  sun  rises  and  sets  in,  and  the 
clock  strikes  in,  and  I  wake  and  sleep  in.  Cour- 
age, then  !  For  what  goes  on  in  my  spirit  now 
will  show  itself  ages  hence.  They  could  never 
be  to  another  person  —  my  pains  and  thoughts  — 
what  they  are  to  me, — not  exactly.  What  I 
shall  be  in  eternity,  I  shall  be  by  my  endurance 
now  and  my  hopefulness.  My  trials  I  might  bear 
with  murmurs,  and  so  I  should  get  to  doubt  God  ; 
or  by  hardening  my  heart  against  the  feeling  of 
them,  and  so  I  should  become  a  stoic  ;  or  by 
fiercely  defying  fate,  and  so  I  should  grow  athe- 
istical. But  I  endeavour  to  suffer  Christianly. 
What  I  am  to  be  hereafter,  I  must  be  becoming 


^S6  EUTHANASY. 

now  ;  and  so  I  am,  indeed.  For,  day  by  day,  1 
am  growing  fixedly  into  the  attitude  which  I  bear 
my  sorrows  in  ;  and  from  under  them,  my  look 
heavenwards,  whatever  it  is,  is  becoming  eternal 
with  me.  And  then  it  is  not  as  though  any  trouble 
could  be  spared  me,  and  I  not  be  other  than  what 
I  am  to  be.  O  my  destiny  !  God  keep  me 
growing  towards  it !  My  crown  of  glory  !  Lord, 
make  me  worthy  of  it  ! 

MARHAM. 

For  some  time  I  have  not  been  able  to  catch 
all  your  words,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

•I  thought  some  time  I  might  be  going  into  a 
furnace  of  affliction,  and  I  was  talking  with  my- 
self about  it.  And  I  was  saying,  "  Body  !  thou 
must  burn  away  here,  and  for  thee  there  is  no 
help  possible.  But,  soul  !  out  of  this  furnace, 
this  straitened  and  fiery  place,  thou  shalt  es- 
cape, — 

And  thou  shalt  walk  in  soft,  white  light,  with  kings  and  priests 

abroad, 
And  thou  shalt  summer  high  in  bliss  upon  the  hills  of  God." 

MARHAM. 

Whose  lines  are  those  } 

AUBIN. 

They  are  Thomas  Aird's,  and  a  beautiful 
couplet.  I  often  say  them  to  myself ;  and  al- 
ways when  I  do,  it  is  as  though  it  were  an  August 


EUTHANASY.  357 

afternoon,  and  I  had  lived  for  ages,  while  my 
spirit  in  me  feels  so  calm,  yet  earnest,  and  as 
though  it  were  growing  into  great  thoughts.  Yes  ! 
and  what  is  there  I  may  not  hope  for  ?  For  I  am 
like  Melchisedek  of  old  ;  and  I  am  king  and  priest 
both  ;  for  so  to  God  Christ  has  made  me  be. 
Prayer  is  the  sacrifice  I  have  to  offer  ;  and  morn- 
ing and  evening,  day  and  night,  it  is  welcome,  for 
the  Father  seeks  to  have  it.  My  passions  are 
the  subjects  of  my  kingly  rule,  and  my  throne  is 
the  Gospel  ;  and  from  the  height  of  it  I  judge  the 
men,  and  things,  and  the  affairs  about  me.  My 
soul,  my  soul  !  be  thou  faithful  in  judgment,  and 
thou  shalt  grow  up  to  the  companionship  of  King 
Alfred,  and  St.  Louis,  and  George  Washington. 

And  thou  shalt  walk  in  soft,  white  light,  with  kings  and  priests 

abroad, 
And  thou  shalt  summer  high  in  bliss  upon  the  hills  of  God. 


358  EUTHANAST. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Transition  into  the  divine  ia  ever  woful,  yet  it  is  life. 

Bbttina  Arnim. 

He  that  lives  fourscore  years  is  but  like  one 

That  stays  here  for  a  friend  :  when  death  comes,  then 

Away  he  goes,  and  is  ne'er  seen  again,  — Thomas  Middlbton. 

MARHAM. 

I  HAVE  been  thinking,  Oliver,  of  what  we 
talked  about  yesterday.  What  you  said  has  done 
me  good,  though  I  wish  I  could  remember  it 
better.  My  memory  is  not  what  it  was,  I  think. 
Well,  I  must  be  patient.  I  am  an  old  man,  and 
so  patience  ought  to  be  my  special  business. 
There  is  not  much  else  for  me  ;  there  is  no  work 
for  me  in  the  world.  My  share  in  life  I  have 
had,  and  there  is  no  further  part  for  me  in  the 
struggles  and  successes  of  it.  Now  I  have  to 
study  to  be  quiet,  and  wait  for  my  dismissal 

AUBIN. 

Your  admission,  uncle.  And  it  is  a  sublime 
waiting.  Blackly  the  gates  of  the  grave  frown 
against  us,  outside  them  ;  but  from  the  inside  they 
will  be  beautiful,  for  they  will  be  seen  through 
light  that  is  not  of  the  sun,  nor  the  moon,  but 
older  ;  yes,  and  newer,  too,  for  what  is  eternal  is 
always  young. 


EUTHANASY.  359 

MARHAM. 

More  trust  is  what  I  want.  But  it  will  grow 
in  me,  perhaps,  with  the  patience  that  old  age 
forces.  For  I  must  be  patient ;  and  more  and 
more  I  shall  have  to  be.  For  with  an  old  man 
friends  die  fast,  hopes  come  to  nothing,  the  world 
lessens  in  interest,  and  things  that  were  once  a 
passion  are  not  cared  about.' 

AUBIN. 

Is  it  beginning  to  be  so  with  you,  uncle  ? 
Then  why  is  it .''  There  is  an  answer,  and  a 
happy  one.  It  is  because  you  are  growing  up  to 
a  higher  order  of  things  than  what  are  of  this 
earth.  For  what  this  world  has  to  teach  you, 
you  have  learned. 

MARHAM. 

O,  no,  no  ! 

AUBIN. 

All  the  wisdom  and  freshness  of  the  world  you 
have  not  exhausted.  But  what  each  man'3  na- 
ture is  capable  of  is  commonly  imbibed  in  three- 
score years  and  ten,  though  perhaps  an  angel 
might  profit  in  this  world  for  ages  ;  just  as  a 
daisy  is  perfect  with  one  year's  growth,  while 
in  the  same  soil  an  oak  will  be  deepening  with 
its  roots,  and  rising  with  its  head,  for  two  cen- 
turies or  more.  Do  you  feel  as  though  you 
might  some  time,  perhaps,  be  weary  of  life, — 
be   thinking   that   there  is  nothing  new  in  it,  and 


360  EUTHANASY. 

no  more  to  be  known  from  it  ?  Weary  of  it  you 
will  never  be,  uncle,  for  you  will  be  patient,  and 
always  you  will  think  that  life,  even  as  endurance 
only,  will  prove  to  be  a  privilege,  and  a  rare  one, 
perhaps  ;  for  they  are  not  many  who  live  to  ex- 
ercise the  patience  of  fourscore  years.  The  pa- 
tience of  eighty  years  did  I  say  ?  I  ought  to 
have  said  the  blessedness  of  them  ;  for  with  a 
God  to  be  glad  in,  the  believing  soul  must  always 
be  happy,  or  else  be  just  about  being  the  happier 
for  suffering. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  so  I  hope  for  more  faith  than  I  have. 
I  want  it.  In  my  last  days,  I  fear  feeling  to  have 
no  pleasure  in  them  ;  for  it  ought  not  to  be  so 
with  me,  as  a  Christian. 

AUBIN. 

Nor  will  it  be,  if  you  keep  looking  for  the  great 
hope,  and  the  appearing  of  our  Lord  .Jesus  Christ. 
Childhood,  youth,  manhood,  marriage,  friendship, 
trading,  study,  pleasure,  and  sorrow,  —  you  have 
got  the  good  of  them  all ;  and  some  of  them  you 
might  have  tired  of,  if  they  had  lasted  with  you 
long,  but  now  they  feel  like  the  first  lessons  in- 
troductory to  a  wondrous  book  that  has  to  be 
opened  yet. 

MAEHAM. 

O,  the  very  thought  an  old  man  ought  to  wait 
with  ! 


EUTHANASY.  361 

AUBIN. 

Feelings  and  motives  in  hearts  of  flesh  you 
know  the  working  of,  various  as  it  may  be  ;  so 
now  you  are  ready  for  the  knowledge  of  souls  in 
some  other  than  this  fleshly  estate.  In  the  hum 
of  the  town  that  is  near  us,  a  youth  hears  what 
inspirits  him  ;  but  you  do  not,  for  you  have  heard 
it  so  long.  And  your  heart,  as  it  gets  purer, 
craves  a  holiness  that  is  not  of  this  world  ;  and  so 
the  city  of  God  is  the  easier  for  you  to  see  with 
your  eyes  of  faith  ;  and  the  less  you  are  of  this 
world,  the  more  plainly  are  the  voices  to  be  heard 
which  call  to  you  from  above  to  go  up  thither. 

MARHAM. 

And  up  there,  O  that  I  may  go  !  For  thither 
they  have  ascended  whose  lives  were  parts  of 
my  life,  and  in  whose  deaths  I  died  myself,  — 
died  deaths  that  have  had  no  resurrections  yet ; 
but  they  will  have  ;  for  every  affection  of  mine 
will  hve  again,  or  rather  will  be  joy  again  in  the 
sight  of  dear,  recovered  friends.  But  in  this 
meanwhile  I  do  not  see  them  ;  and  others  are 
being  taken  after  them. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  one  by  one 

MARHAM. 

And  faster  and  faster 


AUBIN. 

There  are  being  assembled  in  the  other  world 


362  EUTHANASY. 

all  your  kindred,  both  after  the  flesh  and  after  the 
spirit ;  and  with  their  going  hence,  this  world  is 
to  you  less  and  less  like  an  abiding-place. 

MARHAM. 

As  you  know,  Oliver,  my  friends  have  died 
fast  lately. 

AUBIN. 

And  become  spirits,  and  friends  of  yours  gone 
into  bliss.  And  with  every  longing  after  them, 
you  grow  more  akin  to  heaven.  And  so,  out 
of  the  very  decay  of  this  life,  there  grows  in  you 
the  spirit  of  another  life. 

MARHAM. 

Once  I  saw  a  large  tree  so  hollow  as  to  be  lit- 
tle better  than  a  case  of  bark  ;  still  it  was  living. 
But  inside  the  tree,  and  overtopping  it,  grew  a 
sapling  so  strong  and  green.  And  the  hull  of 
the  old-  tree  was  a  fence  round  the  young  one  ; 
though,  indeed,  they  were  both  one  tree,  for  they 
had  the  same  root,  and  it  was  only  the  stem  re- 
newing itself.  A  very  curious  and  pretty  sight  it 
was.  And  it  pleased  me,  as  being  a  happy  em- 
blem of  myself.  And  I  said,  "  My  hfe  is  rooted 
in  God  fast  and  everlasting,  and  though  outward- 
ly I  may  perish,  there  is  within  me  a  life  to  be 
renewed  to  all  eternity." 

AUBIN. 

Such  a  tree  I  myself  saw  near  Dieventer  in 
Holland,  with,  an  old  man  and  a  little  child  near 


EUTHANASY.  363 

it.  A  very  old  man  he  was.  He  must  be  dead 
before  this,  and  his  grandchild  be  growing  up 
into  his  place  m  the  world.  Dead  is  a  word  that 
must  be  used  ;  so  that  I  wish  all  wrong  meaning 
could  be  kept  out  of  it.  For  there  is  a  sense  in 
which  that  old  man  is  not  dead,  and  never  will 
be,  though  departed  he  is,  no  doubt.  Through 
one  minute's  look  at  him,  he  lives  on  in  my  mem- 
ory ;  and  does  not  he,  then,  surely  live  on  in  the 
universe  that  produced  and  supported  him  ?  O, 
surely,  surely  !  Since  I  saw  what  I  have  been 
speaking  of,  1  have  never  once  recollected  it  till 
this  minute,  and  it  is  as  though  I  saw  it  now. 
Even  without  my  knowledge,  that  scene  has  lived 
on  in  me  six  years.  Now  my  soul  is  like  a  thought 
in  God  ;  so  I  will  never  fear  dying  out  of  the  Di- 
vine mind.  Last  night  it  occurred  to  me  that  to 
be  remembered  of  God  is  to  live  in  him.  And 
so  it  is,  I  have  no  doubt,  though  to-day  I  do  not 
understand  how.  For  there  are  some  truths 
which  at  one  time  are  quite  plain,  though  at 
another  they  seem  obscure.  This  is  according 
to  what  mood  we  are  in.  Just  as  the  stars  shine 
more  or  less  brightly  with  the  state  of  the  atmos- 
phere. 

MARHAM. 

There  cannot  be  any  forgetfulness  in  God,  and 
all  things  live  in  him  according  to  their  nature, 
the  robin  for  its  two  or  three  years,  the  lark  for 
its  seven  or  eight,  and  the  raven  for  its  century. 


364  EDTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

In  God  the  fountains  rise,  and  the  nv^>M  run 
and  the  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ;  and  shall  not  my 
spirit  continue  to  be  a  spirit  in  him  ?  But  in 
death  there  is  the  loss  of  the  body ;  and  in 
health,  is  not  there  a  losing  of  the  body  and  a  re- 
gaining of  other  flesh  every  minute  ?  And  then, 
has  a  river  the  same  water  running  in  it  any  two 
hours  together  ?  A  fountain  is  a  fountain,  in 
God,  for  a  hundred,  a  thousand,  and  many  thou- 
sand years  ;  so  I  will  not  fear  but  my  soul  will 
be  a  soul  in  him  for  ages  of  ages,  as  the  Greek 
has  it,  or,  in  our  English  phrase,  for  ever. 


EUTHANASY.  3()5 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Virtue  thus 
Sel8  forth  and  magnifies  herself;  thus  feeds     . 
A  calm,  and  beautiful,  and  silent  fire, 
From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment,  nay,  from  guilt. 

Wordsworth. 

AUBIN. 

As  I  got  up  from  my  bedside  prayer  this 
morning,  I  said,  "  I  am  ;  and  because  I  am  what 
I  am,  I  am  immortal."  Do  you  not  feel  the 
force  of  this  .''  Nor  do  I  now,  though  I  did  this 
morning,  but  perhaps  with  my  heart  more  than 
my  head,  and  that,  perhaps,  was  more  sensitive 
just  after  prayer  than  it  is  now. 

MARHAM. 

I  am  well  persuaded  that  after  earnest  prayer 
the  mind  is  clearest,  and  the  will  is  freest,  and 
the  judgment  is  wisest,  and  that  then  thoughts 
come  to  us  most  nearly  like  Divine  messages. 
And  after  kneeling  to  God,  our  first  few  steps  are 
almost  certainly  in  the  way  of  eternal  life.  It  is 
after  having  drawn  nigh  to  God,  that  our  feelings 
are  most  nearly  hke  Divine  guidance.  So  that 
the  thought  you  had  this  morning  may  be  quite 
true,  though  you  may  not  be  able  to  tell  how  it  is. 


366  EUTHANASi'. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  there  is  a  state  of  mind  between  prayer 
and  reasoning,  in  which  the  windows  of  heaven 
are  partly  open  above  us,  and  while  we  are  look- 
ing upwards,  we  have  at  the  same  time  some 
sight  of  things  about  us  ;  and  in  the  light  of  God, 
they  look  in  a  way  which  is  not  to  be  doubted, 
though  not  to  be  proved,  nor  even  spoken  of, 
easily. 

MARHAM. 

God  is  with  us  nigher  than  we  suppose  ;  and 
he  is  in  many  of  the  workings  of  our  souls, — 
a  power  that  we  do  not  think  of. 

AUBIN. 

I  have  some  thoughts,  on  the  first  coming  of 
which  into  niy  mind*  I  clasped  my  hands  and 
said,  "  O,  not  of  my  own  thinking  are  these,  but 
thy  glorious  sending,  O  my  soul's  God,  thou  God 
of  truth  !  "  And  sometimes  I  have  had  such 
beauty  in  my  soul,  that  T  could  not  but  believe  it 
a  something  out  of  heaven.  And  some  seasons 
have  felt  to  me,  O,  so  unearthly,  so  unlike  what 
the  tongue  can  vouch  for,  that  I  am  sure  of  there 
being  a  heaven  nigh  me,  and  of  its  spirit  reaching 
into  my  spirit  at  times.  These  are  experiences 
that  I  do  not  distrust,  for  they  are  akin  to  what 
our  Saviour  says  of  his  doctrine  being  to  be 
known  to  be  of  God  by  the  doing  of  it.  The 
Christian  heaven,  — does  any  disciple  wish  to  be 


EUTHANAS\ .  367 

sure  of  its  existence  ?  He  can  know  it  for  him- 
self. There  is  even  a  sixpence  that  will  let  him 
into  what  will  be  blessed  certainty  for  him  ;  but  it 
must  be  his  last  coin,  and  he  must  halve  it  with  a 
worse  sufferer  than  himself ;  and  then  for  a  while 
he  will  be  inside  the  golden  gates,  and  under  him 
the  earth  will  be  like  holy  ground,  and  there  will 
be  the  feeling  of  a  glory  round  his  head,  and  there 
will  be  the  thronging  round  him  of  a  presence  like 
that  of  angels,  and  in  his  ears  there  will  be  the 
delight  of  a  Divine  voice,  saying,  ''  My  son,  my 
son,  in  thee  I  am  well  pleased." 

MARHAM. 

O,  very  precious  such  experiences  are  ;  and 
they  might  be  commoner  with  us  than  they  are. 
For  God  is  to  be,  and  indeed  is,  felt  in  every 
mood  that  is  godlike.  But  it  is  the  loving  soul 
that  believes  most  easily,  and  knows  most  largely 
what  the  Divine  purposes  are. 

AUBIN. 

I  have  moments,  in  which  immortality  feels  too 
great  a  thing  for  us  men,  —  incredibly  great. 
And  for  joy  sometimes,  and  sometimes  for  fear, 
I  cannot  assure  myself  of  my  ever  being  to  walk 
alongside  the  river  of  life.  I  remember  once 
feeling  in  this  way,  and  I  sat  down  on  a  bank  to 
think.  And  I  saw  minnows,  and  other  happy 
little  things,  that  dart  about  in  brooks  ;  and  I  said 
to  myself,  that  they  had  not  been   too  little  for 


368  EUTHANASY. 

God's  making.  And  with  looking  at  them,  I  got 
to  love  them.  And  then  I  felt  the  more  tenderly 
God's  love  of  myself,  —  that  love  which  insects 
live  in,  as  well  as  angels.  Then  I  said  to  myself, 
*'  Let  God  do  with  me  what  he  will,  any  thing 
he  will  ;  and  whatever  it  be,  it  will  be  either 
heaven  itself  or  some  beginning  of  it."  Nothing 
of  God's  making  can  a  man  love  rightly,  without 
being  the  surer  of  God's  loving  himself,  — neither 
the  moon,  nor  the  stars,  nor  a  rock,  nor  a  tree, 
nor  a  flower,  nor  a  bird.  And  not  the  least 
grateful  of  my  thanksgivings  have  been  hymns, 
that  have  come  of  themselves  on  to  my  lips,  while 
I  have  been  listening  to  the  birds  of  an  evening. 
Only  let  us  love  what  God  loves,  and  then  his 
love  of  ourselves  will  feel  certain,  and  the  sight 
of  his  face  we  shall  be  sure  of;  and  immortality, 
and  heaven,  and  the  freedom  of  the  universe,  be 
as  easy  for  us  to  believe  in,  as  a  father's  giving 
good  gifts  to  his  children. 

MARHAM. 

How  should  we  know  any  thing  rightly  about 
God,  without  loving  him  ?  It  is  only  with  the 
heart  that  we  can  believe  unto  salvation. 

AUBIN. 

Infinite  power,  wisdom  infinite,  infinite  love, 
infinite  life,  —  the  God  of  infinities  we  would 
gladly  offer  ourselves  up  to,  all  of  us,  willing 
sacrifices.      But  many  of  us   shrink  from  some 


EUTHANASY.  369 

small  offering  when  we  are  led  up  to  the  altar,  if 
it  is  in  an  obscure  corner  of  the  world,  or  lowly 
in  look.  For,  at  first,  our  wish  is  to  perform 
grand  service  before  many  witnesses  ;  but  this  is 
not  what  God  wants  often,  and  so  it  is  seldom  a 
person  is  called  to  it  ;  but  what  he  does  wish  is 
the  sincerity  of  the  soul.  And  when  a  soul  does 
become  all  his  own,  it  is  lit  up  from  within  with 
such  Divine  light  as  glorifies  every  thing  else. 
Duty  is  an  angel,  reverently  beloved,  that  walks 
beside  the  man,  with  solemn  steps  ;  and  common 
life  is  a  path,  shining  before  him  more  and  more  ; 
and  the  future  is  a  mist  which  he  will  pass  through, 
and  so  be  nigher  God  ;  and  if  to-day  the  world 
feels  round  him  like  a  temple  for  worship  in,  then 
to-morrow  there  will  be  a  further  world  for  him 
to  pass  on  into,  and  it  will  be  the  holy  of  holies  ; 
so  his  fervor  trusts. 

MARHAM. 

Virtue  known  and  praised  by  a  whole  town  has 
its  reward,  perhaps,  in  popularity  ;  but  they  are 
the  good  deeds,  done  by  on6  hand  unknown  to 
the  other,  and  they  are  the  prayers  prayed  in  se 
cret,  that  have  the  special  promise  of  reward  b} 
our  Father  in  heaven.  The  only  virtue  tha* 
speaks  of  a  reward  at  all  plainly  is  what  says 
least  about  it,  and  it  is  what  can  lose  money,  and 
forego  opportunities,  and  be  misunderstood  by 
24 


370  EUTHANASY. 

friends,  and  be  alone  in  the  world,  happy  enough, 
in  only  hoping  for  heaven. 

AUBIN. 

The  hopefulness  of  human  nature  is  infinite, 
and  in  a  good  heart  it  is  unquenchable  ;  and  it  is 
evidence  of  heirship  to  what  is  not  of  this  world. 

MARK  AM. 

But,  Oliver,  what  are  our  fears  ?  for  sometimes 
our  hearts  are  as  though  they  could  misgive  us 
about  a  world  to  come. 

AUBTN. 

Fears  are  angel-thoughts  in  black,  telling  the 
same  grand  message  of  another  life  as  our  hopes 
do  ;  only  they  are  mourners  the  while  for  what 
unworthiness  is  in  us. 

MARHAM. 

Such  a  life  as  yours  was  for  that  long  time 
would  have  made  almost  any  body  else  heart-sick 
for  the  rest  of  his  years.  But  T  do  think  with  you 
calamity  must  have  been  all  joy. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  a  joy  to  think  of,  but  it  was  not  to  bear  ; 
and  I  mourned  under  it  more  than  was  right. 
For  I  fancied  a  life  was  being  bowed  into  the 
dust,  that  otherwise  would  have  been  of  some 
height  in  the  world.  Once,  from  being  well  off, 
I  was  made  poor,  through  offence  being  taken  at 
what  I  did  religiously,  and  which  you  know  of. 
Those  persecutors  are  now  dear  remembrances 


EUTHANASY.  371 

of  mine,  because,  but  for  my  forgiveness  of  them, 
I  could  not  be  so  sure  as  I  am  of  my  being  my- 
self forgiven  by  God.  They  knew  not  vvhat  they 
did;  and  most  of  them  —  five  or  six  —  would 
say  so  now. 

MARHAM. 

But  they  did  you  good,  Oliver,  when  you  did 
not  think  it,  nor  they  either.  For  what  blows 
were  struck  against  you,  God  directed  to  the 
sculpturing  out  of  a  feature  in  your  character,  that 
would  otherwise  have  been  less  noble  than  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

And,  uncle,  I  have  a  tender  interest  in  the  men 
who  made  me  endure  grief  for  what  was  my  con- 
science toward  God  ;  because  this  is  said  in  the 
Scriptures  to  be  fellowship  with  Christ's  suffer- 
ings. This  is  a  world  in  which  we  are  being 
tempted  together,  and  some  of  us  perfected  to- 
gether, —  all  of  us,  if  we  will.  Much  of  what  I 
am,  T  am  become  by  the  wrongs  I  have  done,  and 
got  pardoned,  — griefs  which  1  caused  my  parents 
and  teachers,  my  school-fellows,  and  one  or  two 
fellow-students.  Yes,  among  us  men,  these  three 
things  are  a  large  part  of  our  virtue,  —  to  endure, 
to  forgive,  and  ourselves  to  get  pardon.  And  so 
my  enemies,  through  repenting  towards  me,  be- 
come other  and  perhaps  better  than  they  would 
have  been  but  for  wronging  me.  Christ  died  for 
the  world  ;  and  we  have  fellowship  with  his  suf- 


372  EUTHANASY. 

ferings,  when  we  endure  and  forgive  persecutors  ; 
for  through  a  right  spirit  toward  them,  earlier  or 
later,  they  will  be  changed.  Yes,  to  endure 
wrongfully  and  forgivingly  is  to  be  bruised  for 
other  men,  and  in  the  end  to  have  them  healed 
with  our  stripes.  Let  a  man  suffer  with  Christ, 
and  he  will  know  of  his  being  to  reign  with  him  ; 
for  there  will  rise  in  his  soul  such  a  strange,  strong 
persuasion  of  it.  So,  uncle,  I  have  forgiven  my 
enemies,  and  I  love  them  ;  at  least  I  trust  I  do. 
They  made  me  suffer  much  and  unjustly  ;  but  it 
was  because  I  had  been  calumniated  to  them  by 
their  passions. 

MABHAM. 

That  was  five  years  ago  ;  and  at  that  time, 
Oliver,  I  should  not  myself  have  understood  you 
rightly  ;  I  should  have  been  unjust  to  you,  I  am 
afraid. 

ATJBIN. 

You  might  have  been  cold  towards  me,  but,  my 
dear  uncle,  you  would  never  have  been  false  nor 
unfair.  But  those  words  I  ought  not  to  use  ;  they 
would  not  betoken  me  much  the  better  for  having 
had  all  manner  of  evil  said  and  done  against  me 
falsely.  And  this  is  a  thing  that  I  ought  to  be 
blessed  for  having  had  happen  to  me.  O  uncle, 
what  I  once  hoped  to  do,  and  how  I  have  failed 
of  it !  But  I  think  I  did  my  best  ;  and  no  one 
can  do  more  than  that.     We  do  what  we  can  in 


EUTHANASY.  373 

tills  earth,  and  we  cannot  achieve  more.  Our 
human  ability  has  its  bounds  far  short  of  controll- 
ing the  planets,  and  infinitely  short  of  regulating 
destiny.  We  work  according  to  our  means  ;  and 
perhaps  we  are  thwarted  by  the  enmity  of  the 
world  or  by  Mammon  ;  but  these  are  God's  ene- 
mies as  well  as  ours,  and  they  fight  against  him 
more  than  against  us.  If  what  is  godlike  in  us 
brings  trouble  on  us,  it  is  God's  concern  more 
than  ours,  —  the  Master's  more  than  his  servants'. 
There  is  not  a  righteous  failure  anywhere  but 
compromises  Divine  Providence,  and  is  what 
God  will  see  to. 

MARHAM. 

We  Christians  work  for  God,  and  not  for  our- 
selves ;  and  when  we  fail  even  utterly,  it  is  only 
to  find  our  cause  retrieved  in  heaven. 

AUBIN. 

O,  we  should  expect  to  live  again,  —  at  least  I 
should,  —  if  it  were  only  to  hear  sentence  given  on 
such  righteous  causes  as  have  been  cried  down  in 
this  world.  If  I  were  no  Christian,  I  should  yet 
think  in  my  flesh  to  hear  God  speak,  though  it 
were  only  to  justify  to  men  what  had  been  the 
lives  of  Socrates,  and  Barneveldt,  and  Madame 
Roland.  Good,  and  just,  and  great,  and  devout, 
was  De  Barneveldt  ;  and  before  the  sword  went 
through  his  neck,  his  last  words  were,  "  O  God, 
what  then  is  man  ?  "     This  was  more  than  two 


374  euthanasyj 

hundred  years  ago.  The  words  went  up  from 
off  a  scaffold  into  the  air,  and  they  have  not  been 
answered  yet ;  but  they  will  be  some  time,  if  there 
is  any  truth  in  the  truth,  or  any  meaning  in  con- 
science. This  is  what  I  should  have  thought, 
without  being  a  Christian.  But  now  I  know  of  a 
day  in  which  the  world  will  be  judged  in  right- 
eousness ;  and  there  is  not  a  man  but,  one  way 
or  another,  makes  me  surer  of  it. 

MARHAM. 

I  like  what  you  said  just  now  about  our  suffer- 
ing from  one  another.  And  it  is  so  great  a  pleas- 
ure to  hear  it  from  you,  after  your  having  been 
so  misunderstood,  and 

AUBIN. 

That  my  world  did  not  know  what  I  was  in  it, 
is  nothing  ;  for  think  of  the  years  that  went  over 
before  Jesus  Christ  was  known  ;  and,  indeed,  is 
he  known  yet  ?  And  in  a  world  in  which  Christ 
suffered  for  his  goodness,  and  was  an  outcast, 
without  a  place  to  lay  liis  head  in,  it  would  be 
almost  a  fearful  thing  to  be  altogether  comforta- 
ble ;  so  I  have  sometimes  thought,  and  so  I 
should  still  feel,  only  that  my  happiness  has  come 
through  Christ,  —  through  your  Christian  love, 
uncle  Stephen.  •  At  ease  in  a  world  in  which  my 
Lord  was  such  a  sufferer  !  I  hope,  if  I  had  been, 
I  should  have  made  occasions  of  self-sacrifice. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  Oliver,  your  poverty  did  come 


EUTHANASY.  375 

AUBIN. 

Only  of  what  I  could  not  help  doing  for  my 
conscience. 

MARHAM. 

And  it  was  Christ  in  you,  —  your  conscience 
was  ;  for  if  it  had  not  been,  you  would  not  have 
acted  as  you  have  done  more  than  once.  And 
you  have  made  religion  of  your  sorrows,  and  so 
you  have  become  what  I  am  so  glad  of. 

AUBIN. 

And  happier  than  I  should  have  been  other- 
wise. For  a  man  who  knows  how  to  sorrow 
rightly  knows  how  to  be  glad  with  a  holy  joy  ; 
and  when  he  is  happiest,  it  is  as  though  there 
were  a  something  of  God  throbbing  in  his  bosom. 
It  is  as  souls  tha^  we  are  happiest  ;  and  so  suffer- 
ing makes  for  happiness,  because  it  helps  to  make 
the  soul.  O,  what  good  sorrow  does  us  often  ! 
To  many  a  one,  while  he  is  happy,  the  outer 
world  feels  eternal  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  is  sorrow- 
ful, all  worldly  existence  is  only  a  film,  because 
God  and  his  soul  feel  so  close. 

MARHAM. 

Like  as  a  father  pities  his  suffering  child,  and 
embraces  it  for  it  to  feel  his  love  the  better,  so 
the  Lord  makes  himself  felt  with  his  sorrowing 
creatures. 

AUBIN. 

While  I  am  happy  in  myself,  there  is  a  God 


376  EUTHANASY. 

plain  to  my  eyes  in  the  broad  green  turf,  in  the 
branching  tree,  and  in  the  flowing  stream  ;  and  it 
overarches  me  in  the  firmament,  which  is  not  only 
blue,  but  a  holy  joy  to  look  at  ;  and  from  the  sky 
at  night,  it  watches  me  with  ten  million  eyes  ; 
and  sometimes  it  makes  me  clasp  my  hands  and 
say,  "  O  Lord,  our  Lord,  how  excellent  is  thy 
name  in  all  the  earth  !  "  This  is  when  I  am  in 
joy  ;  but  when  I  am  in  grief,  and  in  want  of  some 
loving  assurance  from  God,  I  do  not  think  of  out- 
ward things,  — fruits  ripening  on  trees,  or  wheat- 
ears  waving  yellow  and  thick  against  harvest ; 
and  the  stars  vanish  from  between  me  and  God, 
and  so  almost  does  my  body,  and  I  have  quite 
another  feeling  of  him  than  what  nature  can  give  ; 
and  through  my  grief,  God  is.  nigher  me  than 
through  his  own  glory  in  creation.  For  it  is 
whom  the  Lord  loves  that  he  chastens.  In  afflic- 
tion, 1  am  with  God  almost  spirit  with  spirit ;  and 
then  there  forms  within  my  soul  that  conscious- 
ness of  adoption  which  cries,  "  Father  !  Father  !  " 
O,  yes  !  we  belong  to  the  world  we  cry  to  more 
than  to  this  one  we  suffer  in. 

MARHAM. 

For  we  are  not  in  the  flesh,  but  in  the  spirit,  if 
so  be  that  the  spirit  of  God  dwell  in  us  ;  as  St. 
Paul  says,  before  writing  of  that  spirit  of  adop- 
tion whereby  we  cry,  Abba,  Father  ! 


EUTHANASY.  377 

AtJBIN. 

That  cry  is  not  formed  in  the  throat,  nor  does 
it  come  any  way  of  nerves  and  veins  ;  it  is  not  of 
the  body  ;  and  so  it  witnesses  a  life  not  of  the 
body, — more  than  witnesses,  for  it  is  the  thing 
itself.  I  am  one  with  God  through  the  earnest- 
ness of  prayer,  —  the  Father  !  Father  !  that  I  cry 
in  my  agony.  I  feel  myself  in  God,  and  God  in 
me,  and  the  world  is  nothing  to  me,  neither  life 
nor  death  ;  for  I  am  as  though  I  were  past  and 
through  them  all,  and  as  though  I  had  almost  en- 
tered on  the  sight  of  God,  —  the  Beatific  Vision, 
the  Divine  Ecstasy.  Now,  as  I  think,  these 
spiritual  states,  unearthly  as  they  are,  are  to  be 
regarded  as  promising  a  disembodied  life  ;  just 
as,  while  I  was  an  infant,  my  ears  and  eyes  were 
prophetic  of  what  was  to  be  a  world  of  sight  and 
sound  for  me  to  live  in. 

MARHAM. 

But,  Oliver,  there  are  those  for  whom  sorrow 
is  not  only  a  dark  night,  but  bewilderment ;  and 
so  they  lose  hope  ;  what  would  you  say  to  them  ? 

AUBIN. 

Four  sacrifice  is  burning  on  the  altar,  and 
around  you  the  temple  of  life  is  filled  with  smoke, 
and  no  light  comes  in  through  the  windows,  and 
the  very  walls  you  cannot  see  ;  but  you  know 
where  you  are  ;  for  as  long  as  you  suffer,  you  are 
nigh   the   altar.      That  you  know,    and    by    that 


378  EUTHANASY. 

knowledge  hold  fast.  Be  quiet,  fear  not  ;  and 
be  you  sure  that  when  your  sacrifice  is  over,  one 
after  the  other,  the  windows  that  open  into  the  in- 
finite —  faith  and  hope  —  will  show  themselves  ; 
and  the  air  about  you  will  be  the  clearer  and 
the  sweeter  for  having  been  so  darkened  awhile. 

MABHAM. 

It  ought  always  to  be  enough  for  us  to  be  sure 
of  God's  being  with  us.  But,  Oliver,  there  have 
been  times  when  I  have  not  beheved  as  I  ought 
to  have  done  ;  and  perhaps  it  may  be  so  with  me 
again,  for  sometimes  misgivings  come  into  the 
mind  the  oftener  for  being  resisted. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  they  always  do,  I  think.  But  I  would 
have  you  think  as  I  do,  dear  uncle.  As  I  am 
now,  a  little  trouble  would  darken  my  spirit,  so 
as  that  hope  could  not  shine  into  it  at  all  ;  but  1 
look  over  the  earth,  and  up  at  the  clouds,  and 
into  infinity  beyond  ;  and  then  T  remember  that  I 
can  shut  it  all  out,  with  only  my  hand  on  my 
eyes  :  and  so  I  am  quiet,  even  when  it  seems  as 
though  the  whole  firmament  of  truth  were  hidden 
from  m.e  ;  for  this  may  happen  through  only  a 
very  little  cloud  of  doubt. 

MARHAM. 

When  doubts  are  over,  we  are  the  better  for 
having  been  under  them.  And  this  is  what  we 
ought  to  remember.     And  when  in  trouble,   we 


EUTHANASY.  379 

ought  to  think  how  much  the  better  we  shall  be 
for  it,  some  time. 

AUBIN. 

Sorrow  sobers  us,  and  makes  the  mind  genial. 
And  in  sorrow  we  love  and  trust  our  friends 
more  tenderly,  and  the  dead  become  dearer  to  us. 
And  just  as  the  stars  shine  out  in  the  night,  so 
there  are  blessed  faces  that  look  at  us  in  our  grief, 
though  before  their  features  were  fading  from  our 
recollections.  Suffering  !  Let  no  man  dread  it 
too  much,  because  it  is  good  for  him,  and  it  will 
help  to  make  him  sure  of  his  being  immortal.  It 
is  not  in  the  bright,  happy  day,  but  only  in  the 
solemn  night,  that  other  worlds  are  to  be  seen 
shining  in  their  long,  long  distances.  And  it  is  in 
sorrow,  —  the  night  of  the  soul,  —  that  we  see 
farthest,  and  know  ourselves  natives  of  infinity, 
and  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Most  High. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  there  is  use  in  old  age,  and  it  is 
well  that  this  life  should  commonly  end  with  ill- 
ness. 

AITBTN. 

It  is  nothing  to  me,  now,  what  men  think  of 
me.  But  what  I  am  to  God  is  every  thing. 
Pain  simplifies  the  character  ;  and  I  think  what 
little  I  have  had  has  wrung  more  than  one  little 
hypocrisy  out  of  me.  It  has  been  worth  my 
being  ill,   only    for  this.      Sometimes    I   feel   as 


380  EUTHANASY. 

though  I  would  not  have  one  fault  or  weakness 
unknown  to  you,  uncle.  And  I  do  think,  in  the 
kindly  atmosphere  of  hoine,  that  a  character  will 
always  grow  the  faster  and  the  healthier  for  being 
exposed  all  round,  —  for  having  every .  foible 
known  to  those  who  will  kindly  allow  for  it.  I 
never  did  care  much,  I  hope,  but  now  I  do  not 
care  at  all,  to  be  esteemed  even  as  what  I  am  ; 
and  so  I  think  and  feel,  and  talk  with  persons 
more  freely,  and  perhaps  more  pleasantly,  than  I 
used  to  do.  Smooth,  and  paint,  and  varnish  the 
trunk  and  boughs  of  the  oak,  and  the  majesty  of 
it  will  be  less  hurt  than  the  grandeur  of  the  soul  is 
by  its  attempting  to  look  what  it  is  not,  either  in 
knowledge,  or  feeling,  or  manners.  O,  I  remem- 
ber once  there  came  into  my  mind  a  thought  as 
though  out  of  heaven,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
"  What  I  am  I  am,  and  I  will  not  pretend  to  be 
more "  ;  and  suddenly  I  felt  as  though  I  were 
right  with  every  law  of  the  universe,  and  as 
though  there  were  a  way  certain  for  me  up  to 
the  fatherly  presence  of  Him  who  said  of  himself, 
"  I  am  that  I  am." 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  from  what  unexpected  things  I  have 
heard  from  you  many  times,  I  could  well  believe 
that  there  are  few  things  in  this  present  life  but 
do  rightly  witness  to  the  life  that  is  to  come. 


EUTHANASY. 


381 


AUBIN. 

Annoyances,  distractions,  troubles,  wrongs  ! 
In  enduring  them,  the  persuasion  rises  in  us  of 
our  not  being  born  for  such  things  only.  For  by 
them  the  soul's  sense  of  order  is  wronged  ;  and 
by  that  very  feeling,  she  knows  herself  meant  for 
another  element  than  the  stormy  one  of  this 
world.  And  now  and  then,  amid  her  distresses, 
in  a  more  than  usually  perfect  way,  the  soul  has 
the  peace  of  God  rise  in  her,  and  she  witnesses 
to  herself,  "  This  peace  is  not  of  this  world  ;  and 
if  not  of  this  world,  then  it  must  be  of  another, 
and  I  myself  must  be  of  it  too."  And  when  a 
wrong  is  done  us,  and  we  bear  with  it,  and  are 
grieved  for  the  evil-doers,  sometimes  it  is  as 
though  the  angels  of  heaven  were  looking  "at  us, 
and  as  though  there  were  an  instinct  in  the  soul, 
that  actions  higher  than  this  world  reach  a  sym- 
pathy beyond  it.  And  so  they  do.  And  so, 
under  injustice,  we  Christians  can  rejoice  and  be 
exceeding  glad  on  account  of  our  great  reward  in 
heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Badness  shows  the  certain  existence  of  good- 
ness, as  being  its  natural  reverse.  And  the 
world  is  never  so  out  of  tune,  but  some  strain  of 
heaven  is  to  be  heard  in  it  by  the  ear  that  is 
spiritual. 


382  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Nearly  always,  uncle,  music  makes  me  feel 
myself  what  I  am  not,  but  what  I  must  think  I  am 
to  be  ;  for  as  a  boy  I  knew  something  of  what 
my  manhood  would  be,  by  the  manly  feelings  I 
had  now  and  then.  In  listening  to  music,  it  is  as 
though  there  were  stirring  in  me  the  beginnings 
of  another  manner  of  life  than  what  is  possible  to 
be  lived  in  the  flesh,  or  be  thought  of  either,  — 
but  certainly  freer  and  more  earnest. 

MARHAM. 

I  have  felt  the  same,  or  rather  what  you  speak 
of ;  for  what  you  understand  to  be  the  meaning  of 
it,  I  had  certainly  never  thought  of  before.  But 
is  it  really  a  thought,  or  only  a  fancy  of  yours  ? 

AUBIN. 

It  is  a  belief  of  mine,  but  of  course  a  very 
slight  one.  And,  indeed,  I  think  our  nature  af- 
fords many  more  tokens  of  being  immortal  than 
are  commonly  minded.  This  world's  feeling  so 
mean  and  poor  argues  us  born  for  what  is  higher. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  we  are  ;  for  we  are  heirs  of  God,  and 
joint  heirs  with  Christ. 

AUBIN. 

It  sounds  profanely,  that  horses  have  been  sta- 
bled, and  cooking-fires  been  lit,  in  cathedrals. 
But  the  thought  of  God  is  a  holier  temple  than  a 
minster  is,  and    sometimes  we    live    In  it  worse 


EUTHANASY.  383 

than  soldiers  in  a  church  ;  for  really  discontent- 
ment is  blasphemy,  and  an  ill  look  against  another 
is  a  curse.  O,  sometimes  it  feels  to  me  quite  pro- 
fane that  I  should  be  living  ;  and  I  draw  in  my 
breath  slowly,  as  though  unworthy  of  God's  air  ; 
and  it  is  to  me  as  though  the  brightest  life  of  man 
would  be  but  a  dark  track  on  the  shining  floor  of 
heaven. 

MARHAM. 

Ah,  yes  !  what  is  our  goodness  ?  what  is  our 
virtue  ?     Nothing,  nothing  ! 

AUBIN. 

Not  only  men,  but  even  their  thoughts,  by  being 
humble,  get  exalted.  This  world  is  nothing  ;  and 
so  it  may  well  be  to  me,  if  I  am  heir  to  a  Father 
in  heaven,  and  to  some  one  of  his  many  mansions. 
At  times,  the  brightest  virtue  of  man  is  dim  to 
me  ;  and  why  ?  It  is  because  the  eyes  of  my 
understanding  are  opening,  against  I  have  sight  of 
God.  This  world  is  mean  to  me,  only  because 
I  have  eyes  not  of  this  world  ;  because  I  am 
growing  a  new  creature  in  Christ. 

MARHAM. 

You  seem  to  me  to  rely  so  confidently,  Oli- 
ver   

AUBIN. 

On  the  same  kind  of  argument  as  the  author  of 
the  Epistle  to  the  Hebrews  makes  use  of,  when 
he  writes,  that  a  man  comes  to  God  only  through 


384  EUTHANASY. 

first  believing  in  his  existence.  Could  we  have 
called  upon  God  if  he  had  not  wished  it  ?  For 
could  not  he  have  made  us  so  as  to  have  had  no 
feeling  of  him,  and  no  want  of  him  ?  That  I  can 
pray,  "  Lord,  help  me  !  "  is  a  proof  that  he  will 
help  me.  Because  a  prayer  can  be  prayed  at  all, 
there  is  certainly  a  Divine  ear  to  hear  it.  It  is 
because  I  can  call  upon  God  in  the  day  of  trouble, 
that  I  may  be  sure  there  is  help  for  me,  some- 
where or  somehow,  under  Providence.  Here  is 
a  parent,  who  is  all  anxiety  and  love  for  his  child. 
And  what  his .  child  is  to  him,  he  feels  as  though 
he  himself  might  be  to  God.  By  his  nature,  by 
the  way  he  is  made  to  feel,  his  own  trust  in  God 
is  the  stronger  for  his  child's  trust  in  himself. 
My  God,  my  God,  help  me  as  a  father  !  —  when 
a  man  prays  so,  is  it  no  more  than  if  he  had 
wished  well  to  himself  ?  It  is  not  merely  that  the 
man  is  allowed  to  pray,  but  he  is  made  to  do  it ; 
and  his  heart  in  him  is  made  in  such  a  way  that 
he  prays  out  of  it  the  more  believingly  for  his  being 
a  father. 

MARHAM. 

That  T  quite  think,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  not  by  chance,  but  by  design,  that  a  man's 
becoming  a  father  makes  him  pray  the  more  be- 
lievingly. And  so  you  think,  uncle.  And  I  think 
myself  that  every  way  of  feeling  is  to  be  trusted 
to,  that  grows  out  of  a  Christian  heart. 


EUTHANAS^ .  385 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  out  of  a  heart  that  really  is  Christian. 

AUBIN. 

The  purer  in  heart  I  become,  the  more  I  want 
to  see  God. 

MARHAM. 

A  blessed  want ;  for  Christ  has  promised  it 
shall  be  satisfied. 

AUBIN. 

And  through  Christ  in  me,  I  am  sure  of  it 
My  soul  yearns  to  God  ;  then  it  will  be  taken 
into  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  some  time.  God 
is  love,  God  is  truth  ;  and  he  would  not  have  let 
me  long  for  his  face,  if  he  had  meant  me  never  to 
see  it. 

MARHAM. 

No,  he  would  not ;  for  if  we  are  made  to  hun- 
ger, it  is  so  that  we  may  eat  ;  or  if  to  thirst,  it  is 
because  drink  is  to  be  had,  and  because  it  is  good 
for  us. 

AUBIN. 

The  universe  is  juster  than  my  justice,  and 
better  than  my  best  thoughts,  and  will  work  to  a 
more  blessed  end  than  even  my  love  can  hope, 
so  that  safely  I  may  trust  in  it,  all  I  can,  and  un- 
boundedly. 

MARHAM. 

A  mother  may  forget  her  child,  but  God  can- 
not forget  us. 

25 


886  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

No,  never.  And  when  a  child  dies,  and  a 
mother  feels  as  though,  if  gone  for  ever,  the  uni- 
verse might  have  perished  with  it,  is  not  it  as 
though  the  truth  of  the  universe  were  pledged  to 
her  for  her  seeing  her  child  again  ?  I  think  so. 
And  by  the  beauty  of  every  star  that  shines,  by 
every  thing  good  in  this  world,  and  by  all  that 
God  has  done  in  our  knowledge,  and  by  every 
thing  right  we  know  of  him,  that  mother  will  have 
her  child  again. 

MARIIAM. 

Yes,  she  will.  And  we  shall  all  of  us  have 
our  hopes,  —  such  of  them  as  are  pure.  For 
nothing  of  God's  giving  dies  from  us  into  the 
great  grave  of  the  world,  without  there  being  to 
be  a  resurrection  for  it,  in  some  more  glorious 
form.  For  nothing  can  fall  from  us,  and  be  for- 
gotten before  God. 

AUBIN. 

If  I  had  ever  known  a  stone  the  law  of  gravita- 
tion did  not  hold  good  by,  then  I  might  fear  for 
myself  proving  the  one  soul  which  God  might  for- 
get. But  it  is  God's  being  in  it,  that  holds  the 
earth  together  ;  and  there  is  not  a  grain  of  sand 
but  feels  him,  nor  a  thought  of  mine  but  is  a  wit- 
ness of  him.  For  could  I  remember,  could  I 
think,  without  faculties  ?  and  they  are  not  of  my 
own  maintaining  in  me.     Because  if  it  were  not 


EUTHANASY.  387 

for  God,  my  soul  would  dissipate  at  once.  So 
that  my  very  fear  of  being  forgotten  is  a  proof  that 
I  am  not. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  so  it  is.  There  is  no  one  who  would  not 
easily  believe  in  a  life  to  come,  if  this  present  life 
were  the  wonderful  thing  to  him  it  ought  to  be. 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes  it  does  seem  to  me  so  wonderful 
that  I  should  be  alive  !  It  quite  startles  me  for 
the  moment ;  and  I  cannot  help  saying  to  myself 
that  T  am,  —  I  am,  —  I  am.  It  is  so  strange  that 
the  world  should  be,  and  I  be  in  it,  and  walking 
about  it,  that  it  is  as  though  voices  from  above 
might  call  to  me,  "  Thou  !  thou  art  alive,  —  alive 
out  of  nothing.  And  thou  !  what,  what  art  thou 
doing  now  ?  "  This  hand  of  mine  !  it  is  curious, 
very  curious,  more  curiously  made  than  I  know. 
Whether  a  brute  knows  any  thing  of  himself  or 
not,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  this  I  do  know,  that  I  am 
myself  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made.  And  this 
fearfulness  and  wonder  !  my  God  !  it  is  thyself ;  it 
is  what  I  have  my  being  in.  When  I  clench  my 
hand,  it  is  through  power  of  thy  lending,  O  God  ! 
—  power  that  thou  knowest  of,  and  that  I  am 
to  answer  for  the  use  of.  By  what  I  am.  Lord 
God  !  what  I  am  to  be  is  nothing  so  strange.  I 
was  born  of  my  mother,  and  she  of  her  mother, 
but  not  without  God  ;  for  one  hair  of  their  heads 


388  EUTHANASY. 

they  had  not  themselves  the  power  to  make  white 
or  black.  And  besides,  Eve  was  not  born  of 
herself,  nor  did  she  spring  out  of  the  dust,  nor  did 
she  get  made  by  chance,  nor  did  Adam.  Some- 
times, if  I  could  doubt  my  existence,  I  should  ; 
for  it  does  seem  so  strange,  that  for  all  eternity  I 
should  not  have  been,  and  now,  this  year,  that  I 
should  be.  Ay,  when  I  think  of  it,  the  miracle 
is  in  my  being  at  all,  and  not  in  my  being  to  be 
again. 


EUTHANASY.  389 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

But  eaough  ia  said  to  make  a  speculative  man  see,  that  if  God  should  join 
the  soul  of  a  lately  dead  man,  even  whilst  his  corpse  should  lie  entire,  in  his 
winding-sheet  here,  unto  a  body  made^of  earth  taken  from  some  mountain 
in  America,  it  were  most  true  and  certain,  that  the  body  he  should  then 
live  by  were  the  same  identical  body  he  lived  with  before  his  death  and  late 
resurrection.  It  is  evident  that  sameness,  thisness  and  thatness,  belongeth 
not  to  matter  by  itself,  for  a  general  indifference  runneth  through  it  all,  but 
only  as  it  is  distinguished  and  individuated  by  the  form. 

Kenblm  Digby. 


AUBIN. 

I  DO  not  think  embalming  a  body  is  right. 

MARHAM. 

Why  not  ?    For  is  not  it  natural  to  attempt  it .'' 

AUBIN. 

But  then  who  are  they  to  whom  it  is  natural .'' 
The  old  worshippers  of  Isis  and  Osiris,  rather 
than  us  Christians.  It  is  according  to  nature  for 
a  dead  body  to  rot  and  vanish  ;  and  so  we  ought 
to  let  it,  for  no  one  can  attempt  to  mend  the  ways 
of  nature  and  not  maim  himself  some  way. 

MARHAM. 

But  how  in  embalming  a  human  body  ? 

AUBIN.- 

In  his  feelings  about  death  and  the  dead.  In 
any  thing  to  violate  nature  is  to  wrong  one's 
self. 


H90  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

I  know  It  will  be  no  matter  to  me  what  becomes 
of  my  body,  any  more  than  of  my  clothes  ;  yet  I 
feel  as  though  it  would  be  pleasanter,  if  I  knew 
why  my  body  must  dissolve. 

AUBIN. 

It  would  have  been  an  awful  thing  if  the  human 
body  had  continued  fresh  after  death,  and  only 
with  the  breath  out.  We  could  not  then  have 
buried  a  body,  nor  hidden  it  away,  without  bru- 
talizing ourselves.  And  besides,  it  would  have 
made  us  feel  at  last  as  though  we  were  only 
bodies  ;  and  death  would  have  been  a  worse  ter- 
ror to  us  than  he  is.  And  then,  uncle,  I  am  sure 
that  wrong  feeling  about  dead  bodies  vitiates  faith 
in  immortality.  Besides,  if  I  died  to-morrow, 
why  should  my  corpse  be  felt  about  so  strangely, 
when  it  would  be  only  one  of  several  bodies  that 
I  have  had  and  worn  out.  For  it  is  said  that  in 
the  human  frame  every  particle  is  changed  in  seven 
years.  But  now  how  begins  the  gravestone  ? 
"Here  heth  the  body  of  John  Smith."  But 
more  truly  it  would  say,  "  Here  lies  the  last  of 
the  bodies  of  John  Smith,"  or  "  Here  lies  the 
body  from  which  John  Smith  departed,"  or 
"  Here  lies  the  body  which  John  Smith  had  the 
day  when  he  departed  this  life."  Either  one  of 
these  forms  is  truer  than  what  the  stonecutter 
uses,  and,  as  well  as  being  more  correct,  is  hap- 
pier to  think  of. 


EUTHANASY.  391 

MARHAM. 

And  if  truer,  then  better  every  way.  I  should 
not  see  much  of  the  sublimity  of  a  mountain,  if 
while  looking  at  it  I  had  a  mote  in  my  eye  ;  but 
the  grave-mound  of  a  friend  is  a  greater  matter 
than  the  Alps  are  to  some  of  my  feelings  ;  so  in 
those  feelings  I  would  not  have  any  thing  false,  if 
possible.  As  rightly  as  I  can,  let  me  think  and 
feel  in  regard  to  my  friend's  disappearance. 

AUBIN. 

In  some  countries,  a  corpse  is  not  to  be  touch- 
ed for  fear  of  being  made  unclean  by  it,  while  in 
some  others  it  is  tended  almost  as  though  ahve. 
There  have  been  countries  in  which  the  dead 
have  been  lodged  more  grandly  than  the  living  ; 
and  in  some  places,  they  are  hurried  out  of  sight 
indecently  quick. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  custom,  chiefly  ;  else  I  was  going  to  say 
that  carelessness  about  the  remains  of  the  dead 
would  argue  but  little  kindly  feeling  one  with 
another,  among  the  living. 

AUBIN. 

I  feel  solemnly  among  the  old  walls  and  arches 
of  what  was  once  a  church  ;  and  shall  I  feel  less 
reverently  beside  what  was  once  a  saintly  man  to 
look  at  ?  Mere  flesh  and  bones,  —  dust  returning 
unto  dust,  —  is  it  ?  What,  then,  are  the  remains 
of  Fountain  Abbey,  of  Rievaulx   Abbey,  and  at 


392  EUTHANASY. 

Castleacre  ?  Stones  and  lime  ;  and  with  poor 
workmanship  in  them  compared  with  the  make  of 
a  human  body.  The  body  of  a  departed  saint  is 
dead,  so  it  is  ;  but  it  is  the  ruins  of  what  wa* 
once  a  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  It  is  a  dis- 
used temple  ;  in  it,  loving  wishes  no  longer  form 
and  rise  to  God  like  incense  ;  the  light  of  reason 
in  it  is  put  out ;  the  book  of  remembrance  in  it  is 
shut,  and  there  is  no  more  reading  from  it ;  di- 
vine service  in  it  is  over,  and  an  eternal  Amen 
has  been  said  to  it  by  Fate  ;  and  at  the  soul's 
going  forth  from  her  temple,  there  was  joy,  though 
elsewhere  than  among  men. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  we  are  temples  of  God  ;  or  rather  oui 
persons  are,  as  long  as  our  souls  are  in  them.  It 
is  the  indwelling  spirit  that  makes  flesh  and  blood 
be  a  temple.  We  will  remember  this,  and  so 
not  think  more  of  the  temple  than  of  what  sancti- 
fies it. 

AUBIN. 

On  York  Minster  there  are  always  repairs  go- 
ing on,  and  it  is  the  same  with  the  human  temple. 
From  what  it  was  ten  years  ago,  every  particle 
of  my  body  has  been  changed  ;  but  it  is  not  so 
with  my  soul.  Four  times  over  has  my  body 
been  changed  ;  and  when  it  is  changed  at  last,  it 
will  only  be  seven  years  more  swiftly  than  before. 
And  after  all,  we  shall  not  quit  the  world  more 


EUTHANASY.  393 

suddenly  than  we  entered  it.  It  is  more  than  ten 
years  since  there  was  in  my  body  any  thing  of 
the  limbs  I  used  to  run  with  as  a  boy  ;  but  I 
have  the  thoughts  I  had  then,  and  very  hkely 
every  one  of  them,  though  not  to  be  called  up  at 
will.  Now  is  not  this  proof  enough  of  spiritual 
existence  .''  It  is  what  Dr.  Johnson  did  not  know 
of,  perhaps,  when  he  would  have  hked  to  have 
seen  a  spirit.     A  strange  wish  ! 

MARHAM. 

He  was  confident  in  there  being  a  world  of 
spirits  ;  but  he  had  never  seen  it,  and  so 

AUBIN. 

Nor  have  I  ever  seen  my  own  head  ;  but  that 
I  have  it,  I  am  sure.  But  you  will  say  I  can 
handle  it  with  my  hands.  And  so  I  can  ;  but 
then  I  have  to  depend  on  the  correctness  of  what 
feeling  is  in  my  hands,  and  that  is  what  I  cannot 
be  certain  of.  In  every  thing,  for  the  correct- 
ness of  what  knowledge  we  get,  even  through 
our  eyes  and  ears,  we  have  to  trust  the  truth  of 
our  make,  and  so  at  last  of  our  Maker.  My  bod- 
ily faculties  I  have  used  as  trustworthy  ;  and  at 
least  as  much  I  will  trust  what  spiritual  feelings  I 
have  been  made  with.  And  I  think  there  are 
thoughts  which  I  should  sooner  and  more  rightly 
trust  than  either  my  eyes  or  my  fingers.  I  should 
not  believe  in  another  world,  for  seeing  a  crowd 
of  ghosts,  at  all  more  firmly  than  I  do  now.     For 


394  EUTHANASY. 

then  I  should  have  to  credit  my  eyesight ;  and 
since  trust  I  must,  I  can  quite  as  surely  trust 
what  witness  of  the  spirit  there  is  in  my  spirit. 
When  I  go  down  on  my  knees,  sometimes  there 
is  that  from  within  me  which  calls  aloud,  "  Fa- 
ther !  Father  !  "  And  always  ihat  cry  is  answer- 
ed, because  that  yearning  of  the  spirit  changes 
into  its  own  answer,  into  a  mingled  feeling  of 
awe,  and  faith,  and  love  ;  and  it  is  as  though  I 
were  wrapped  round  with  a  cloud,  and  were  spo- 
ken to  from  above,  "  My  son,  my  son,  in  whom 
I  am  pleased  !  " 

MARHAM. 

There  is  much  truth  in  what  you  said  once, 
Oliver,  that  if  a  man  feels  like  Christ,  he  will  get 
to  think  like  him  more  and  more.  And  we  get 
to  feel  like  Christ  by  doing  his  commandments. 

AUBIN. 

A  man  has  doubts  that  weaken  his  faith  ;  then 
let  him  fix  on  some  one  fault  of  his  own  and  mend 
it,  and  there  will  be  one  doubt  the  less  in  him, 
most  likely.  Or  he  cannot  hope-  much,  he  is  so 
mournful  ;  then  let  him  be  some  worse  sufferer's 
hope,  and  he  will  soon  have  heaven  a  dear 
thought  with  him.  Only  let  a  disciple  live  as 
Christ  lived,  and  he  will  easily  believe  in  living 
again,  as  Christ  does.  And  in  this  way  he  may 
believe  and  almost  know  himself  to  be  a  living 
soul,  as  well  as  a  body  that  can  be  touched. 


EUTHANAST.  395 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  let  a  man  live  the  life  of  the  spirit, 
and  he  will  the  more  easily  think  of  himself  out- 
living the  life  of  his  body. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  when  a  body  becomes  dust,  there  is 
not  a  grain  of  it  that  does  not  feel  the  laws  of  at- 
traction and  gravitation. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  the  soul  is  not  to  be  feared  for  ;  for  if 
through  God  every  particle  of  the  body  is  drawn 
into  use,  then  here  are  a  thousand  and  a  million 
instances  of  the  certain  way  in  which  the  soul 
must  be  drawn  into  life. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  spirit  to  spirit  we  go,  like  to  like,  chil- 
dren to  our  Father,  and  godlike  to  God's  self. 
In  God  I  live,  and  move,  and  have  my  being  ; 
and  in  him  I  shall  weaken,  and  faint,  and  have 
my  death.  This  is  certain.  But,  indeed,  I  am 
always  dying.  No  two  days  is  my  body  the 
same,  and  no  two  minutes.  By  my  breathing 
and  my  heart  beating,  my  body  is  decaying  and 
renewing  every  moment,  my  bones  and  even  my 
eyes  ;  and  it  is  not  of  my  own  will,  but  of  God  ; 
and  so  will  my  death  be.  My  body  will  fail  me 
only  to  leave  me  on  the  bosom  of  the  Father,  and 
to  let  me  feel  it  more  warmly  than  ever.  Four 
bodies   I   have   worn   out ;  and   parting  with  this 


396  EUTHANASY. 

fifth  one  whole  will  be  what  will  be  called  mj 
death,  but  what  will  be  really  my  life,  —  my  new- 
ness of  life. 

MARHAM. 

Four  bodies,  one  after  another,  you  have  had, 
and  I  ten  or  more.  It  is  quite  true,  I  suppose. 
And  it  is  knowledge  along  with  which  embalming 
would  not  have  become  a  practice,  nor  such 
tombs  have  been  built  as  are  in  Lycia. 

AUBIN. 

In  a  mausoleum  or  a  grand  tomb,  so  much  is 
made  of  the  body  that  one  thinks  of  it  too  much, 
as  though  it  had  been  the  whole  man.  For  my 
ow^n  body  I  would  not  have  a  leaden  coffin,  nor 
a  tomb,  nor  a  bricked  grave  ;  but  I  would  have 
it  laid  in  the  mould.  For  now  it  is  hot  and  cold 
with  the  air,  and  well  and  ill  with  the  weather, 
and  the  way  the  wind  blows  ;  and  so  the  way  of 
nature  let  it  go  when  I  am  gone,  —  ashes  to 
ashes,  and  dust  to  dust. 

MARHAM. 

But,  my  dear  Oliver 

AUBIN. 

This  frame  of  mine,  — it  is  mine  through  rat- 
ing, and  drinking,  and  breathing.  This  body 
of  mine  is  out  of  wheat-fields  and  gardens  ;  it 
has  come  to  me  out  of  the  ground,  through  the 
roots  of  herbs  and  trees,  and  in  wholesome  air 
from  the  forests  of  Norway,  and  the  woody  mid- 


KUTHANASY.  397 

die  of  Australia,  and  the  banian-trees  of  Asia. 
There  is  in  my  veins  what  has  been  in  a  rainbow, 
perhaps,  and  very  certainly  what  is  from  the  rice- 
fields  of  the  East  Indies,  and  from  the  cane-brakes 
of  the  West  Indies,  and  from  out  of  the  sea. 
Wonderful  is  the  way  our  souls  take  flesh,  and 
have  their  earthly  being.  It  is  well  known  to  us, 
and  so  is  not  much  to  think  of;  else  even  life 
after  death  would  be  an  easier  thought  than  it  is 
sometimes. 

MARHAM. 

We  men  may  well  hope  to  live  again  ;  as  we, 
and  we  alone,  are  let  know  what  wonderful  way 
we  are  living  already. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  better  not  to  think  so  much  of  the  bodies 
of  the  dead  as  the  Egyptians  did  in  embalming 
them,  and  as  the  Arabians  did  in  making  rock 
tombs  for  them,  and  as  the  Romans  and  other 
nations  did  in  their  various  funereal  customs.  I 
would  not  wish  to  have  my  body  laid  under  the 
floor  of  a  church  ;  but  in  the  earth  let  it  be  laid, 
and  let  the  grass  grow  over  it,  and  under  that 
green  mantle  of  her  spreading,  let  Nature  be  free 
to  take  again  into  herself  what  has  been  my  body  ; 
into  grass  let  it  go,  and  up  the  roots,  and  into  the 
green  boughs  of  trees  ;  and  in  vapor  let  it  rise 
from  the  ground,  and  into  the  clouds. 


398  EUTHANASY-. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

O,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died ! 

Longfellow. 

AUBIN. 

I  WOULD  not  allow  of  any  creed  in  the  Church 
but  the  Bible  ;  and  it  should  be  heresy  for  one 
minister  to  use  a  word  of  it  against  another,  ex- 
cept lovingly.  O,  but  there  would  then  be  the 
peace  of  God  among  Christians,  and  very  soon, 
perhaps,  throughout  the  world  ! 

MARHAM. 

In  Eton  church,  under  the  arms  of  Sir  Henry 
Wotton,  it  is  said,  in  Latin,  that  underneath  lies 
the  author  of  the  maxim,  that  a  great  flow  of  ar- 
gument is  what  runs  to  a  disease  in  the  Church. 
And  then  the  reader  is  told  to  ask  for  his  name 
elsewhere. 

AUBIN. 

His  epitaph  is  not  in  such  good  taste  as  Wal- 
ton's life  of  him.  How  few  good  epitaphs  there 
are  !  I  have  seen  somewhere,  that  on  the  tomb 
of  one  Count  Algarotti,  a  philosopher  at  Pisa,  is 
what  he  himself  ordered  should  be  cut,  —  Here 


EUTHANASY.  399 

lies  Algarotti,  but  not  all  of  him.  A  word  or 
two  more  would  have  made  it  religious,  and  the 
best  epitaph  I  know  of.  Of  all  the  monumental 
inscriptions  in  Ely  cathedral,  there  is  not  one  that 
is  good,  I  think  ;  but  I  did  not  read  the  more 
modern  ones. 

MARHAM. 

You  must  have  been  very  fastidious  when  you 
were  there,  Oliver  ;  for  some  good  ones  you 
must  have  seen,  because  so  many  dignitaries  of 
the  Church  have  always  lived  at  Ely, — men  of 
learning,  and  leisure,  and  often,  no  doubt,  of  po- 
etical, as  well  as  devout  feeling.  And  then,  if  I 
remember  rightly,  the  tablets  in  the  cathedral,  and 
the  inscriptions  on  tombs,  are  very  numerous. 

AUBIN. 

So  they  are  ;  telling  what  stalls,  rectories, 
deaneries,  wives,  children,  learning,  virtues,  and 
years,  the  clergy  of  that  rich  soil  have  had  ;  and 
what  have  been  the  Hves  of  several  officers  of 
the  Right  Honorable  the  Corporation  of  the  Great 
Level  of  the  Fens. 

MARHAM. 

Such  persons  are  gratefully  remembered  in 
those  marshes,  I  dare  say. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  would  seem  ;  for  an  epitaph  says  that 
one  deceased  was  very  dearly  remembered  in 
Thorny  Level,  in  the  Isle  of  Ely,  and   in  Deep- 


400  EUTHANASY. 

ing  Fens,  in  Lincolnshire,  on  account  of  his  abil- 
ity in  draining  fenny  and  marsh  lands.  Another 
inscription  says,  —  "  Under  this  marble  rests  what 
there  was  of  earth  in  Thomas  Benyon,  a  clergy- 
man. Us  survivors  he  taught  how  to  die,  on  the 
twenty-6fth  of  February,  in  the  year  of  our  salva- 
tion sixteen  hundred  and  eighty-nine."  Now 
that  is  well,  but  it  is  followed  by  another  line  or 
two,  not  quite  so  good.  I  wonder  why  it  is  that 
funeral  inscriptions  are  almost  always  so  poorly 
written,  so  universally  wanting  in  taste. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  nothing  surprising,  Oliver.  For  such  in- 
scriptions are  commonly  written  by  men  blind 
with  tears,  and  with  unsteady  hands.  And  there 
is  a  distress  that  is  not  rare,  and  that  quite  dis- 
ables the  mind  for  correct  thinking,  and  especially 
for  tasteful  expression  ;  for  taste  comes  of  mental 
harmony  ;  and  so  there  is  no  wonder  it  is  wanting 
on  tombstones,  which  are  written  on  in  a  troubled 
spirit  almost  always. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  you  are  right.  And  I  am  rather 
ashamed  of  myself  for  what  gravestones  I  have 
smiled  at ;  for  1  was  thoughtless  ;  as  I  ought  to 
have  known  that  epitaphs  are  the  utterances  of 
mourners,  and  are  nearly  all  of  them  what  would 
sound  very  natural,  if  heard  from  quivering  lips, 
and  with  a  stop  here  and  there  to  keep  a   sob 


EUTHANASY.  401 

down.  I  remember  having  seen,  at  Chowbent, 
a  tablet  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  John  Taylor,  the 
divine,  and  from  which  he  appears  to  have  died 
in  his  sleep  ;  and  this  was  what  he  used  to  wish 
might  be  his  earthly  end,  —  so  the  sexton  of  the 
chapel  said 

MARHAM. 

Archbishop  Leighton  used  to  say,  that  if  he 
might  choose  a  place  to  die  in,  it  should  be  an 
inn,  so  as  to  escape  seeing  his  friends  weep  ;  and 
he  did  die  at  the  Bell,  on  a  visit  to  London. 
He  thought,  by  dying  at  an  inn,  he  should  feel 
the  more  like  a  pilgrim  starting  on  the  last  part  of 
his  journey  home. 

AUBIN. 

Spenser  makes  a  wanderer  be  told,  that  death 
is  itself  an  inn  :  — 

Death  is  an  equal  doom 
To  good  and  bad,  the  common  inn  of  rest ; 
But  after  death  the  trial  is  to  come, 
When  best  shall  be  to  them  that  lived  best. 

In  his  last  illness,  Pascal  was  troubled  at  his 
having  more  comforts  than  some  other  sufferers, 
and  he  wished  to  be  carried  to  a  hospital  to  die. 
He  was  religiously  mistaken  in  wearing  a  girdle 
of  spikes,  —  at  least  we  will  hope  he  was  ;  but 
without  any  doubt,  he  was  a  Christain  in  earnest. 
His  pains  were  very  great  for  a  long  while,  but 
especially  towards .  the  end  of  his  life  ;  but  they 
26 


402  EUTHANASY. 

were  what  he  could  almost  take  his  ease  in,  for, 
as  he  said  to  his  sister,  it  was  a  happiness  to  him 
to  be  in  such  a  state  as  to  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  submit  humbly  and  calmly. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  life  of  Dr.  John  Donne,  he  is  said,  his 
last  fortnight,  to  have  been  so  happy  as  to  have 
had  nothing  to  do  but  to  die. 

AUBIN. 

The  good  men  of  his  age  died  more  deliberate- 
ly than  is  often  done  now.  As  soon  as  they 
knew  themselves  mortally  ill,  they  finished  their 
earthly  business,  sent  for  their  friends  to  have  a 
few  last  words  with  them,  said,  perhaps,  how  and 
where  they  would  wish  to  be  buried  ;  and  then 
they  could  watch  the  great  eclipse  of  life,  and, 
with  the  darkness  growing  on  them,  could  wonder 
and  worship  in  quiet. 

MARHAM. 

Bishop  Ken  had  even  his  shroud  made  m  read- 
iness for  his  death,  and  he  used  to  carry  it  about 
with  him  when  he  travelled  ;  and  he  put  it  on  in 
his  last  illness,  and  died  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

His  brother-in-law,  Izaak  Walton,  was  not  so 
ascetic,  but  was  quite  as  good  a  man,  I  think  ; 
and  I  think  would  not  have  put  a  shroud  on,  but 
would  rather  have  died  in  a  meadow  on  a  summer 
afternoon.     I  remember  the  last  stanza  of  a  poem 


EUTHANASY.  403 

which  he  made,  as  he  sat  on  the  grass  under  a 
sycamore-tree,  and  perhaps  with  a  book  on  his 
knees,  and  a  dog  nigh  him.  He  says,  I  could 
wish  many  things,  but  most,  to  — 

with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook  ;  — 

There  sit  by  him  and  eat  my  meat ; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day  ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away ; 

And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 

A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

Dear  old  Izaak  !  By  feeling  those  lines  of  his, 
one  is  better  fit  for  death  than  by  putting  a 
shroud  on.  Walton  thanked  God  for  flowers, 
and  showers,  and  meat,  and  content,  and  leisure 
to  go  a-fishing.  And  I  thank  God  for  my  know- 
ing of  him  ;  for  he  has  done  me  good  by  his 
books  and  cheerful  piety. 

MARHAM. 

Walter  Pope  and  Izaak  Walton  would  have 
liked  one  another,  I  should  think.  Walter  Pope 
wrote  a  poem  called  the  Old  Man's  Wish.  I 
remember  a  verse  of  it :  — 

May  I  govern  my  passions  with  absolute  sway, 
Grow  wiser  and  better  as  life  wears  away, 
Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle  decay,  — 
A  gentle  —  a  gentle  —  a  gentle  decay ! 

You  would  not   think  those  lines  had  ever  been 

Latin  ;  but  they  were  once,  and  were  translated 

by  Vincent  Bourne. 


404  ETTTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

I  like  them,  uncle,  very  much.  And  I  like  the 
way  John  Keats  wished  to  die  ;  it  is  what  he  felt 
while  he  was  listening  to  the  nightingale  once, 
and  I  suppose  in  the  dark. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death,  — 
Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath : 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 
In  such  an  ecstasy. 

fle  died  where  there  are  more  nightingales  than 
there  are  here  ;  and  we  will  hope  he  felt  at  the 
last  what  he  said  himself,  that  disappointments 
and  anxieties  are  the  subtile  food  on  which  to  feel 
how  quiet  death  is.  Uncle,  I  will  repeat  to  you 
the  last  lines  of  what  is  supposed  to  have  been 
Nicoll's  last  poem  :  — 

Death  is  upon  me,  yet  I  fear  not  now. 

Open  my  chamber  window,  —  let  me  look 
Upon  the  silent  vales,  the  sunny  glow 

That  fills  each  alley,  close,  and  copsewood  nook. 
I  know  them,  love  them,  mourn  not  them  to  leave ; 
Existence  and  its  change  my  spirit  cannot  grieve ! 

Brave  Robert  Nicoll  !  for  when  he  was  thus  re- 
signed to  death,  he  had  a  dear  wife  and  a  useful 
employment,  and  had  just  struggled  through  pov- 
erty up  to  the  sight  of  a  high  and  bright  path  in 
society. 


EUTHANASY.  405 

MARHAM. 

You  read  »u  j  yesterday,  a  sonnet  of  Bryant's. 
I  should  like,  io  hear  it  again.  He  wishes  in  it  to 
be  in  his  old  age  like  the  month  October,  and  to 
die  like  it. 

AUBIN. 

I  will  read  it  uncle  ;  and  this  is  a  right  day  for 
it,  is  not  it  ? 

Ay,  thou  art  welcome,  heaven's  delicious  breath ! 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death : 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south !  O,  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods,  and  in  the  golden  air. 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 
Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  'mid  bowers  and  brooks, 
And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks. 

And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 

And  when  my  last  sand  twinkles  in  the  glass, 

Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 

Friends  with  him,  —  he  would  wish  to  have 
friends  with  him  at  the  last.  And  so  would  I. 
He  would  wish  to  have  kind  voices  within  his 
hearing,  and  he  is  right ;  for,  O,  the  magic,  the 
comfort,  the  unutterable,  the  tranquillizing  power, 
there  is  in  the  human  voice  !  I  could  wish  my- 
self to  be  able  to  hear  to  the  last,  and  never  to 
be  too  weak  to  read.  Some  men  have  died  with 
books  in  their  hands  ;  and  I  think  Petrarch  did. 


406  EUTHANASY. 

And  Bailey  says  there  is  that  to  be  written  yet, 
which  good  old  men  shall  read,  and  then, 

Closing  the  book,  shall  utter  lowlily,  — 
"Death!  thou  art  infinite ;  it  is  life  is  little." 

Ah  !  some  such  book  once  I  hoped  to  attemp 

writing.     But  the  trial  was  not  to  be  allowed  me. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  in  part  it  was  to  be,  and  is.  For 
no  old  man  would  have  been  more  grateful  for  the 
book  than  I  am  for  your  talk.  We  have  been 
talking  about  how  some  men  have  wished  to  die  ; 
but  how  one  would  like  to  know  what  thoughts 
they  had  at  the  last,  —  those  poets  and  philoso- 
phers that  are  dead  ! 

AUBIN. 

A  man  like  Tasso,  for  instance. 

MARHAM. 

Yes. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  I  have  a  piece  by  me  that  I  wrote  two 
years  ago.  It  is  called  the  Last  Vision  of  Tasso. 
Towards  the  end  of  his  life,  the  poet  imagined 
himself  visited  by  a  spirit.  His  friend,  the  Mar- 
quis Manso,  says  he  once  heard  a  most  lofty  con- 
verse ;  but,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  it  was  Torquato, 
at  one  time  questioning,  and  at  another  replying. 
Though,  as  the  listener  says,  the  discourse  was 
marvellously  conducted,  both  in  the  sublimity  of 
the  topics,  and  in  a  certain  unwonted  manner  of 


EUTHANASY.  407 

talking,  that    exalted    him    into    an  ecstasy  with 
hearing  it. 

MARHAM. 

I  should  very  much  like  to  see  what  you  have 
written,  Olivei.  For  there  is  in  it,  I  have  no 
doubt,  a  good  deal  of  what  you  have  felt  your- 
self. 


408 


EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XXXV- 

1  can  behold  how  merit  lies  in  ashes ; 

How  darlcness,  circled  round  with  brightest  gloriea, 

Its  hollow  head  upreareth ; 

How  in  the  wise  man's  room  the  fool  is  sitting, 

And  virtue  grieves  all  wretched  and  forsaken  ; 

How  hateful  vice  and  vile  demerit  scoff  her, 

And  drive  her  trembling  from  the  home  of  fortune; 

The  bad  tree  blossoming,  and  by  lightning  stricken 

The  noble  stem.    This  can  I  see,  still  hoping. 

And  therefore  will  I  hail  the  better  future. 

Which  in  me  lives,  which  I  behold  within  me ; 

Thither  to  meet  the  young  day  will  I  hasten, 

Following  the  star  to  which  my  fate  I  've  trusted. 

When  I  the  dust  from  off  my  feet  have  shaken. 

Then  will  I,  too,  soft  branches  round  me  waving, 

Lie  down  in  happy  quiet ! 

For  One  I  know  amid  the  stars  is  circling. 

And  from  their  bright  choir  draweth  strains  harmonious. 

F.  VON  Zboliiz. 

TASSO. 

How  the  time  has  gone  !  Still  I  have  no3 
been  asleep  ;  at  least,  I  think  I  have  not.  And 
yet  now  the  light  shines  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  Ah,  sun  !  very  beautiful  sun  !  Thou  art 
not  wearing  old  yet,  but  in  thy  light  I  have  grown 
old  before  my  time.  No  !  it  was  not  in  thy  light 
that  that  happened  to  me,  for  it  was  in  the  dun- 
geon at  Ferrara.  Seven  years  !  Ay,  they  mad- 
den me  to  think  of.     And  I  was  mad  ;   I  was. 


EUTHANASY. 


409 


But  on  which  side  of  the  hospital  door  I  first 
grew  frenzied  I  will  not  say,  and  I  will  try  not  to 
think.  That  God  knows  and  will  judge  upon,  — 
he  will,  he  will.  Nay,  but  I  pray  thee,  God  ! 
pardon  the  matter,  and  pardon  me.  For  I  will 
not  ask  thee  to  judge  between  me  and  •  him,  — 
him  that  was  my  master.  God  forgive  him  the 
wrong  he  did  me  !  I  do,  —  that  is  I  hope  I  do. 
Only  yesterday  they  gave  me  the  sacrament,  and 
twice  since  then  I  have  been  bitter  against  Alfon- 
so, and  thought  God  would  judge  him.  Ay,  I 
should  not  have  thought  that  without  I  had  wish- 
ed it.  May  God,  merciful  and  compassionate, 
pardon  me  !  I  will  confess  this  sin  while  it  is 
fresh  ;  I  will  do  it  this  evening.  Why,  it  is 
nearly  evening  now  !  Ah  !  one,  two,  tjiree,  five 
swallows  !  O  you  blessed  creatures  !  For  you 
have  the  spring  to  come  before  you,  and  you 
bring  the  summer  from  behind  you  ;  and  with 
you  it  is  always  a  glad  earth.  This  very  minute, 
you  are  flying  up  and  down,  and  across  the  Ti- 
ber, and  in  and  out  of  the  Coliseum  ;  and  some 
of  you,  the  while,  are  resting  yourselves  on  tree- 
tops  and  on  churches.  And  you  see  the  Capi- 
tol, and  can  fly  to  it  so  easily  !  but  now  T  shall 
never  reach  it.  I  shall  die  without  my  crown. 
I  have  hoped  for  it  for  years,  and  now  I  shall 
miss  of  it  by  this  sickness.  Poor  Torquato  !  I 
did  think  once,   that   Virgil   might  perhaps  have 


410  EUTHANASY. 

some  time  called  thee  brother.  But  that  is  past 
hope.  For  now  that  I  could  work,  I  am  dying  ; 
and  now  that  I  have  just  got  the  means  of  living, 
my  lifetime  is  over  ;  and  now  that  the  hand  of 
tyranny  is  off  me,  the  heavier  hand  of  death  is  on 
me.  O,  what  I  might  have  been  !  But  that  will 
soon  be  stifled  in  the  dust  of  what  I  am  about  to 
be.  Once  1  hoped  before  this  to  have  ascended 
up  on  high,  and  been  one  of  the  greater  lights  in 
the  firmament  of  thought  for  ever.  But  I  have 
not  risen,  and  I  shall  die  out  like  a  marsh-light 
extinguished  in  rain,  —  I,  Torquato  Tasso.  I 
am  heart-sick.  1  am  not  afraid  of  death  ;  but  can 
I  trust  him  quite  ?  Me,  my  uncles,  my  mother's 
brothers,  have  defrauded  ;  to  me,  friends  have 
been  fal^e ;  and  me,  my  patron  imprisoned. 
There  have  been  times  —  I  remember  them  — 
in  which  the  face  of  every  man  was  that  of  an 
enemy  against  me.  I  knew  how  people  felt 
towards  me  ;  and  so,  by  my  walking  down  the 
streets  of  Ferrara,  my  soul  has  been,  as  it  were, 
pierced  through  and  through  with  swords.  Then 
I  have  been  cheated  by  the  very  years  of  my  life  ; 
for  fifty  of  them  have  spent  out  of  my  strength 
what  ought  to  have  been  the  health  of  threescore 
and  ten.  After  whispering  me  all  my  life,  and 
drawing  me  on  to  be  her  crowned  poet,  fame  has 
deluded  me.  To  me,  my  own  faculties  have  not 
always   been  true.     What  is  there  has  been  true 


EUTHANASY.  411 

to  me  ?  My  relatives,  my  friends,  the  public,  my 
patrons,  fame, — yea!  and  my  genius,  —  these 
all  have  been  false  to  me.  To  me,  all  things  in 
life  have  been  treacherous  ;  and  so  why  should 
death  be  true  ?  Of  all  things,  why  should  only 
death  be  true  to  me  ?  Me  it  will  be  sure  to 
mock,  some  way  or  other.  But  it  may  be,  —  it 
is,  —  it  must  be,  —  O,  it  is  I  myself  am  the  mock- 
ery, and  the  falsehood,  and  the  delusion.  My 
mind  is  a  mirror  with  a  flaw  in  it,  and  things  can- 
not be  true  to  it ;  they  cannot  look  right  in  it. 
O  the  strangeness  of  my  make  !  Ah,  well  !  but 
there  is  this  now.  Life  is  bright  to  all  other 
men,  but  to  me  it  is  gloomy,  and  always  has 
been  ;  and  so  perhaps  what  is  painful  to  others  in 
death  will  be  pleasant  to  me.  And  so  it  will 
be  ;  for  I  feel  my  spirit  invited  into  death  ;  but 
other  men  have  their  souls  shrink  from  it,  ay,  and 
from  the  very  shadow  and  the  thought  of  it.  I 
knew  it,  —  my  soul  is  not  as  other  souls  are. 
But —  Fool,  fool,  that  I  have  been  !  Again, 
again,  —  O  this  destmy  of  mine  !  —  again  must  I 
be  an  exception  to  the  whole  world,  and  for  the 
worse.  Others  feel  towards  death  as  an  enemy  ; 
but  it  is  to  find  him  their  friend.  So  says  what 
must  be  believed.  But  I  do  not  fear  death,  and 
so  he  will  prove  terrible  to  me.  Fearful  and 
false  he  will  be  to  me.  But  I  will  not  think  it, 
and,  indeed,  I  ought  not,  because  it  is  not  for  me 


412  EUTHANASY. 

to  think  any  thing  positively,  because  I  was  phre- 
netic once,  I  know.  And  this  misgiving  about 
death  may  be  mere  frenzy,  and  I  suspect  it  is  ; 
—  yes,  and  I  will  believe  so,  I  will  think  so.  I 
have  been  mad  with  misery  once,  and  so  God 
help  me  !  My  experience  of  life  has  been  horri- 
ble ;  at  least  I  think  it  has.  And,  indeed,  1  can- 
not be  sure  what  it  has  been  at  all ;  for  this  life 
is  a  half-sentence  ;  and  the  end  of  it  is  not  to  be 
read  in  this  world,  and  so  one  cannot  tell  how  it 
will  read.  My  existence  as  yet,  my  deeds,  my 
attempts,  and  my  sufferings,  are  like  the  four  half- 
lines  that  Virgil  wrote  against  the  palace  of  Au- 
gustus ;  for  it  is  what  is  to  come  after  them  that 
will  make  their  meaning  ;  and  what  that  is  I  can- 
not tell  yet.  Again,  O  holy  and  blessed  appear- 
ance !  yet  again  before  I  die  !  O,  unworthy  of 
it  I  am  !  I  am  unworthy  the  sight.  For  only 
just  now  I  have  allowed  my  soul  to  cloud  and 
darken  with  distrust,  and  my  lips  are  still  moist 
with  the  breath  of  words  murmured  in  discontent 
about  what  my  earthly  lot  has  been,  when  indeed 
I  know  only  what  my  life  has  seemed,  while 
what  it  will  prove  to  have  been  is  not  for  me 
even  to  guess. 

SPIRIT. 

Often  the  yellowness  of  disease,  and  the  white- 
ness of  hunger,  and  the  transparency  of  consump- 
tion, are  the  illuminated  beginning  of  what  reads 


EUTHANASY.  41J5 

on  into  a  patent  of  immortality  for  man  ;  and 
there  are  many  in  heaven,  for  whom  in  that  writ- 
ing the  first  is  a  red  letter,  having  been  colored 
so  with  the  blood  of  their  martyrdom. 

TASSO. 

For  my  poet's  work  I  have  not  had  a  hod- 
man's pay,  —  I  have  not,  I  have  not.  For 
many,  many  years,  men  gladdened  themselves 
with  my  fancies,  but  not  one  of  them  ever  re- 
joiced me.  To  houses  without  number  my  books 
have  been  like  a  theatre,  in  which  the  inhabitants 
have  amused  themselves  at  will ;  and  like  a  libra- 
ry, in  which  from  time  to  time  they  have  inform- 
ed themselves  with  thought  and  feeling  ;  and  like 
a  tower  of  refuge  for  them  against  enemies,  for  in 
reading  my  verses  they  have  forgotten  their  woes. 
To  many  hundreds  I  have  been  all  this  ;  but 
what  have  they  been  to  me  .''  Neglect,  envy,  and 
malice.  Gates  do  not  shut  out  anxieties  ;  but  I 
have  shut  out  cares  from  many  a  man's  mind 
many  a  time  ;  from  many  a  prince's  mind  T  have  ; 
and  often  I  have  been  let  want  the  food  and  lodg- 
ing of  a  door-keeper.  My  miseries  do  not  grieve 
me  to  remember.  But  that  I  could  not  be  un- 
derstood, could  not  be  loved,  —  it  is  this  dis- 
tresses me.  For  till  just  now,  they  had  all  been 
ungrateful  to  me, — all  my  acquaintance,  and  my 
readers,  and  my  countrymen. 


414  EUTHANASY. 

SPIRIT. 

And  have  not  they  all  been  ungrateful  to  God  ? 
Have  you  never  thought  of  that,  —  never  thought 
that  in  that  respect  you  are  standing  towards  the 
world  in  the  same  way  as  God  ?  And  then,  in 
this  world,  the  greater  a  man  is,  the  more  he  is 
misprized  at  first.  Has  it  not  been  so  nearly 
always  ?  Was  it  not  so  with  the  philosophers, 
and  the  poets,  and  the  prophets  of  old  time  ? 

TASSO. 

Yes,  yes  !  I  see  them,  the  great  ones.  With 
the  eyes  of  the  spirit,  I  see  them.  And  they 
pass  in  company  before  me,  —  the  thinkers  of 
the  world,  and  the  sufferers  of  it.  And  there  is 
one  seems  to  reproach  me,  and  another  pities  me, 
because  1  have  grudged  entire  brotherhood  with 
them.  That  high  and  solemn  fellowship  of  yours 
I  have  sinned  against.  O  ye  members  of  it, 
brothers  of  my  spirit,  pity  me  and  pardon  me  ! 
pardon  me,  for  I  have  been  selfish.  Round  your 
brows  there  is  a  halo,  and  on  mine  I  have  hoped 
to  wear  the  same  ;  while  from  your  pathway  of 
thorns  on  this  earth  I  have  shrunk  and  wished  to 
turn  aside.  O  ye  glorified  sufferers  of  this  world, 
forgive  me  ! 

SPIRIT. 

And  is  not  there  known  in  this  earth  a  name 
which  is  above  every  name,  and  have  you  not 
known  how  that  name  was  first  received  ?     And 


EUTHANASY.  415 

among  men,  always,  has  not  God  over  all  been 
most  forgotten  of  all  ?  Your  countrymen  have 
been  ungrateful  to  you  for  your  bright  and  beau- 
tiful thoughts  ;  but  have  they,  many  of  them,  been 
grateful  to  God  for  sunshine  and  starlight  ?  You 
have  been  forgotten,  Torquato,  and  so  has  the 
goodness  of  God  been.  But  the  Lord  is  slow  to 
anger,  and  it  is  of  his  mercy  the  world  is  not  con- 
sumed. 

TASSO. 

O  wretch  that  T  have  been,  and  profane,  to 
have  breathed  God's  air  and  made  it  into  mur- 
murs against  his  Providence  !  Ah  !  T  should  have 
borne  with  my  fellow-men  the  better,  had  I 
thought  of  God's  forbearing  me.  Yes,  and  now 
I  see  in  life  a  man  cannot  be  discontented,  unless 
against  God.  O  God  !  pardon  my  thoughtless- 
ness, for  it  has  been  great  and  wicked.  But 
indeed  I  could  not  always  think  aright ;  for  I  was 
in  want,  in  great  want  sometimes,  and  indeed 
often. 

SPIRIT. 

You  have  wanted  bread  in  St.  Anne's  hospital 
often,  and  often  in  villages  and  towns. 

TASSO. 

Ah  !  you  know  that,  you  do  know  that !  I  am 
glad  you  do.     It  was  hard  with  me  ;  was  it  not  ? 

SPIRIT. 

Suffering  is  perfection  to  the  Christian,  and  to 
the  poet  it  is  wisdom  and  glory. 


416  EUTHANASY. 

TASSO. 

When  I  asked  the  world  for  bread,  there  was 
given  me  a  stone,  often.- 

SPIRIT. 

So  often,  that  out  of  those  stones  you  have 
built  for  yourself  a  monument  in  the  world  on 
which  to  have  your  name  inscribed  for  ever. 

TASSO. 

O,  now  for  that  assurance  the  blessed  God  be 
thanked  !  for  it  means  — does  it  not  ?  —  that  men 
hereafter  will  hold  me  dear.  1  do  not  care  for 
honor  now  ;  but  I  do  wish  to  be  loved,  and  it  is 
what  my  soul  craves.  I  have  never  known  a 
man  I  do  not  long  to  have  love  me.  But  men 
have  not  known  me  often  ;  they  have  thought 
they  have,  but  they  have  not,  and  so  they  have 
not  liked  me  much.  Though  some  have  loved 
me  without  knowing  me  ;  the  poor  have.  Yes, 
tiiey  have  been  kind  to  me  many  times,  —  often, 
—  always,  almost.  In  the  Apennines,  I  have 
heard  them  sing  verses  of  mine  more  than  once. 
There  is  not  a  cottage  there,  but  I  could  wish 
my  name  to  live  in.  For  the  people  there  have 
hard  hands,  and  are  brown  in  the  face  with  the 
sun  ;  but  they  have  love  in  their  eyes,  and  they 
have  voices  that  do  not  deceive.  I  have  been 
often  healed  of  my  melancholy,  for  a  time,  by  a 
peasant's  hand  laid  on  my  shoulder,  or  by  his 
wife's  looking  in  my  face.     For  once  I  was  much 


EUTHANASY.  417 

with  cottagers,  dependent  on  them  for  food  and 
sheker.  That  was  when  1  was  an  outcast  from 
court   and  city,  and  wandering  over  Italy  afoot. 

0  my  wasted  manhood  !  But  it  was  by  others 
it  was  wasted,  not  by  me.  Was  my  genius  only 
my  concern  ?  It  was  intrusted  to  me  ;  but  it 
ought  to  have  been  fostered  by  others ;  but  it  was 
not.     And  I,  —  I  did  what  I  could  with  it ;  and 

1  could  not  do  more.  In  anxiety  about  a  meal 
from  day  to  day,  I  spent  thought  which  the 
whole  world  ought  to  have  been  the  better  for  for 
ever.  For  years  I  had  to  walk  in  the  darkness 
of  poverty,  and  so  I  had  to  use  like  a  lantern  the 
genius  that  might  have  risen  on  all  Italy  like  a 
sun,  had  I  been  treated  rightly  at  that  court  of 
Ferrara. 

SPIRIT. 

By  your  ill  usage  there,  the  world  is  the  worse, 
perhaps,  but  not  you,  Torquato.  For  do  not  you 
remember  in  your  youth  what  your  pride  was  as 
a  courtier,  and  your  ambition  o''  place  ?  It  was 
well  for  you  that  you  failed  of  your  wishes,  or 
you  would  have  become  vain,  and  so  your  genius 
would  have  failed  you  There  was  a  time  when 
you  were  near  valuing  men  for  their  power  more 
than  their  goodness,  and  for  their  honors  more  than 
for  the  way  they  got  them.  And  so  your  love  of 
man  was  changing  into  lust  of  grandeur.  And  as 
a  poet,  what  would  you  have  been  without  love  ? 
27 


418  EUTHANASY. 

and  without  love,  what  would  you  be  as  a  Chris- 
tian, to  die  ?  Your  heart  was  hardening  ;  but 
sorrow  softened  it,  and  kept  it  soft ;  and  in  the 
company  of  the  poor,  it  was  moulded  anew  and 
better.  And  so  now  your  feelings  are  youthfully 
fresh,  and  poetically  pure,  and  as  strong  as  ever. 
It  was  well  the  court,  and  life  at  it,  became  hate- 
ful to  you  ;  for  what  your  feelings  were  becoming 
once,  do  you  not  remember  now,  Torquato  ? 

TASSO. 

Remember  !  remember  !  I  remember  !  And 
it  is  a  horror,  all  of  it.  My  relatives,  my  ac- 
quaintances, and  my  patrons  used  me  so  ill  for  so 
long,  that  I  have  been  sick  of  life.  And  there 
have  been  moments  in  which  immortality  has  felt 
to  me  like  a  weary  thought.  God  will  forgive 
me  this,  because  my  spirit  was  diseased  and 
could  feel  nothing  healthily.  For  it  was  at  a 
time  when  I  wanted  sympathy,  and  bread,  and 
some  little  provision  against  old  age  ;  and  out  of 
so  many  thousand  persons,  there  was  no  one  to 
offer  me  these  things. 

SPIRIT. 

You  suffered  by  that ;  and  so  did  your  neglect- 
ers,  and  worse  than  yourself;  for  they  missed 
becoming  famous,  and  they  failed  of  being  Chris- 
tian by  not  helping  you.  A  cup  of  cold  water 
given  to  a  Christian  is  not  without  a  reward. 
But  he  that  gets  the  love  of  a  Christian  poet  wins 


EUTHANASY. 


419 


more   than  a  throne,  and   what  kingdoms  would 
not  buy. 

TASSO. 

O  God  !  that  some  others  had  judged  hke  that. 
And  I  should  have  been  happy  then.  But  she 
that  was  my  life  would  still  have  died,  —  perhaps 
she  would  ;  but  that  would  not  have  frenzied  me  ; 
it  would  have  made  me  a  mourner  all  my  days  ; 
but  that  sorrow  I  should  have  felt  like  God's 
hand  upon  me,  like  a  loving  touch.  But  that  her 
brother's  tyranny  debarred  me  of  Leonora,  and 
imprisoned  me  from  the  sight  of  her, — this  was 
what  maddened  me.  And  I  was  mad  ;  for  years 
I  was.  O  those  many  lost  years,  the  best  of  my 
life  that  ought  to  have  been,  and  the  brightest  of 
my  genius  that  should  have  been  !  Why,  O, 
why  were  they  darkened  so  ?  Are  there  many 
such  minds  as  mine  in  Italy  ?  Is  there  now,  or 
fifteen  years  since  was  there,  another  Torquato 
Tasso  in  Ferrara,  or  in  Rome,  in  Florence,  in 
Milan,  or  in  Venice  ?  From  among  a  million,  I 
was  to  write  the  Jerusalem  Delivered  ;  and  from 
among  a  million,  I  was  to  be  phrenetic.  First 
one  thing  happened  to  me,  and  then  another,  and 
then  I  was  hated,  and  then  there  was  nobody  I 
could  trust ;  and  so  I  went  mad.  And  it  was  at 
a  time  when  the  laurel  was  in  leaf  out  of  which 
my  poet's  crown  might  have  been  wreathed. 
But  it  was  not  to  be.      The  laurel-leaves  would 


EUTHANASY. 

have  withered  on  my  brow,  it  grew  so  hot.  And 
it  was  as  though  a  voice-  had  come  out  against 
me, —  ''Frenzy  for  thee,  Torquato,  instead  of 
fame."  My  mind  might  have  been  the  home  of 
splendors,  and  the  birthplace  of  glories  for  men  ; 
but  it  became  confusion,  a  lurking-place  for  sus- 
picions, a  horror  of  darkness,  and  an  atmosphere 
of  infinite  melancholy.  Like  deadly  mist  off  the 
Campagna,  and  more  thickly  than  that,  must  my 
sins  have  gone  up  to  heaven,  for  them  in  their 
falling  to  have  rained  into  my  soul,  as  it  were, 
fire  and  brimstone,  burning,  and  blackening,  and 
wasting  it.  Is  it  over  yet  ?  is  it  all  over  ?  Is 
the  air  clear  between  me  and  heaven  ?  and  is 
there  no  cloud  that  may  drench  my  soul  in  de- 
struction yet  !  Me  God  made  a  poet ;  and 
he  lit  up  in  my  mind  a  light  which  other  men 
have  not ;  and  perhaps  it  was  to  light  me  to  other 
duties  than  theirs  ;  and  1  have  not  gone  after 
them.  And  so  I  have  sinned  worse  than  other 
men.  And  my  miseries  have  been  my  punish- 
ment ;  but  not  all  of  it,  perhaps.  There  is  more 
to  come  yet,  and  the  heaviest  part,  perhaps.  O 
my  God  !  my  God  !  then  do  not  thou  let  me 
remember  the  past,  but  in  mercy  make  me  for- 
get it. 

SPIRIT. 

Was    it  for  his  crimes  St.   Paul   suffered  the 
loss  of  all    things  ?     Was   it  under    God's  ven- 


EUTHANASY.  421 

geance  Stephen  died  crushed  and  bleeding  on  the 
ground  ?  And  the  army  of  martyrs,  —  were  they 
sinners  above  all  other  men  ? 

TASSO. 

O,  but  I  have  been  perverse  !  Loving  chas- 
tisements I  have  called  the  sufierings  of  others  ; 
but  I  have  been  impatient  under  my  own,  as 
though  they  were  heavy  vengeance  on  me.  But 
indeed  my  sorrows  have  been,  some  of  them, 
what  do  not  often  happen. 

SPIRIT. 

And  in  your  genius  you  have  had  the  use  of  a 
light  that  is  not  often  given  in  the  world's  dark- 
ness. 

TASSO. 

It  was  losing  that  awhile  which  has  been  my 
greatest  loss,  and  now  it  is  my  most  painful  re- 
membrance ;  for  I  shudder  at  my  mind's  having 
darkened,  perhaps,  with  its  own  sinfulness,  or  in 
God's  anger,  perhaps. 

SPIRIT. 

It  was  in  neither  ;  but  it  was  for  good, — the 
good  of  others  chiefly,  but  also  for  your  own.  It 
was  for  good  ;  and  it  was  good.  Over  the  eye- 
lids of  her  child  asleep  in  the  daylight,  a  mother 
draws  the  coverlet  ;  and  it  is  in  her  love.  But 
over  the  eyes  of  your  waking  understanding,  when 
the  veil  was  drawn,  it  was  done  in  love  that  is 
infinite.      Be  you  sure  of  it.      A  spectacle  to  men 


EUTHANASY. 

were  you  ?  You  were,  and  such  as  no  other  man 
could  have  been.  Was  your  madness  a  strange 
thing  to  hear  of  ?  It  was  ;  and  men  minded  it ; 
and  by  thinking  of  it,  they,  some  of  them,  felt 
anew  the  mysteriousness  of  their  being.  Irrelig- 
ious men  heard  of  you,  and  were  thrilled  ;  and 
they  felt  again  those  roots  of  the  spirit  of  which 
the  Godhead  is  the  soil ;  and  so  their  souls  re- 
vived. Does  not  the  Lord  say  that  all  souls  are 
his  .''  And  so  they  are,  and  your  soul  shows  it. 
And  how  souls  do  not  live  of  themselves,  but  in 
God,  has  been  more  believingly  felt  by  many,  for 
their  having  seen  darkness  come  and  go  across 
your  mind,  you  yourself  helpless  against  it.  A 
star  or  two  may  be  obscured,  and  men  not  heed 
it ;  but  over  all  Italy  your  mind  was  like  a  sun, 
and  at  the  eclipse  of  it  men  thought  of  God. 

TASSO. 

Speak  on,  speak  on.     My  God  !  my  God  !  I 

thank  thee. 

SPIRIT. 

You  have  suffered,  Torquato,  and  greatly,  and 
as  few  ever  suffer.  But  the  thought  of  that 
should  calm,  and  not  trouble  you.  For  have  you 
written  nothing,  said  nothing,  done  nothing  wrong? 
You  can  remember  —  cannot  you?  —  a  hundred 
things,  for  the  least  of  which  you  would  be  glad 
to  suffer  for  days  and  weeks  if  only  it  might 
be  undone,  and  be  as  though  it  had  never  been. 


EUTHANASY.  423 

But  this  is  what  could  not  be.  And,  indeed, 
like  night,  evil  has  its  use  in  this  world  ;  though 
alas  for  them  by  whom  much  of  it  comes  !  Do 
not  understand  your  great  afflictions  as  meaning 
that  you  have  been  much  worse  than  other  men  ; 
but  rather  than  that,  let  your  many  sorrows  as- 
sure you  that  you  are  not  of  those  who  have 
sinned  against  men  more  largely  than  suffered 
with  them. 

TASSO. 

God  !  against  thee  it  was  my  ignorance  that 
repined  ;  and  thou  wilt  pardon  it,  wilt  thou  not  ? 
O  merciful  One  !  wilt  thou  not  ?  Nay,  but  it  is 
of  thy  mercy  there  has  been  vouchsafed  to  me 
this  knowledge  of  thy  Providence.  And  this 
mercy  of  thine  is  an  earnest  of  forgiveness  :  so  I 
feel  it.  Lord  !  my  spirit  yearns  to  thee  now  in 
trust  and  love. 

SPIRIT. 

And  the  more  tenderly  so  for  what  your  sor- 
rows have  been. 

TASSO. 

O  that  I  had  felt  years  ago  what  T  feel  now  ! 
And  why  did  not  I  ?  Why  had  I  not  this  knowl- 
edge against  the  time  of  my  affliction  ? 

SPIRIT. 

You  could  not  have  had  it  against  your  suffer- 
ings, because  it  was  to  come  through  them.  For 
there   is  a  wisdom  that  in  this  world   only  comes 


424  EUTHANASY. 

with  sorrow.  And  in  virtue  there  is  what  only  a 
mourner  is  so  blessed  as  to  reach.  Of  all  the 
souls  you  have  known,  Torquato,  have  not  the 
afflicted  been  the  gentlest,  and  those  that  have 
sorrowed  most  been  the  most  firmly  believing  ? 
And  by  whom  have  the  best  words  in  this  world 
been  spoken  ?  As  you  know,  by  those  who  had 
under  foot  the  ashes  of  their  living  martyrdoms. 

TASSO. 

Glory  to  them  !  for  round  them  the  world 
roared  and  glowed  like  a  furnace  of  affliction  ; 
and,  asbestos-like,  their  souls  were  but  whitened 
in  the  fire.  And,  my  God  !  glory  to  thee  in  the 
highest  !  Glory  to  thee,  with  my  whole  glad 
heart !  My  God  !  my  God  !  how  strong  my 
spirit  grows  with  thanking  thee  !  Now  I  can 
hope,  now  I  can  trust ;  and  I  will,  world  without 
end,  do  with  me  what  God  will. 

SPIRIT. 

God  does  nothing  but  what  the  soul  may  trust  in. 

TASSO. 

And  what  my  soul  shall  trust  in  now,  though 
the  stars  darken  at  it,  and  the  moon  turn  like 
blood.  But,  indeed,  worse  appearances  than 
these  I  have  outlived,  and  worse,  perhaps,  than  I 
shall  ever  know  again.  Abandoned  of  men  I 
have  been  ;  and  I  have  almost  feared  I  was  aban- 
doned of  God.  My  soul  has  craved  for  another 
soul  to  know   it,  and  not  been  known  ;  I  prayed 


EUTHANASY.  425 

for  peace,  long,  long  before  it  came  to  me  ;  and, 
flat  on  the  ground,  I  have  wept  like  an  only  and 
an  orphan  child,  till,  in  my  wretchedness,  the  cold 
earth  under  me  has  felt  like  the  bosom  of  a  dead 
mother.  * 

SPIRIT. 

But  there  was  on  you  then  the  eye  of  your  Fa- 
ther in  heaven  ;  and  now  you  will  be  the  happier, 
the  longer  that  eye  rests  on  you  ;  for  to  feel  it  is 
to  have  the  soul  brighten  with  its  light,  and  warm 
with  its  love,  and  gladden  with  the  infinite  blessed- 
ness that  is  in  it. 

TASSO. 

O,  it  is  all  glorious  with  God,  —  the  future  is. 
And  the  past  will  not  be  so  painful  to  me,  now 
that  you  have  pitied  it. 

SPIRIT. 

Then  it  may  be  a  blessed  thing  for  you  to  think 
of;  for,  Torquato,  God  has  pitied  it. 

TASSO. 

O  God  !     Thou  blessed,  blessed  God  ! 

*  SPIRIT. 

In  pain,  man  feels  himself  a  soul  ;  and  through 
agony,  when  rightly  borne,  he  gets  to  know  him- 
self akin  to  spiritual  greatness.  Out  of  the  ground 
the  food  of  the  body  is  got  with  the  sweat  of  the 
brow.  And  the  bread  that  came  down  from 
heaven,  —  is  it  not  man's  through  the  blood  of 
Jesus  Christ  ? 


426  EUTHANASY. 

TASSO. 

Through  the  precious  blood  of  Christ. 

SPIRIT. 

And  mortality  never  has  immortal  truth  gro\^ 
m  it,  but  in  pain.  The  spirit  gains  on* the  body 
in  pain  ;  and  it  is  in  pain  that  men  die  out  of  this 
world  into  the  other.  The  books  of  the  prophe- 
cies are  the  treasures  of  the  world  now  ;  but  of 
the  prophets  themselves,  there  was  not  one  but 
was  persecuted.  There  is  not  a  noble  feeling  but 
began  with  some  one  who  had  died  to  the  world 
in  agony  before  his  living  in  the  spirit.  And 
there  is  not  a  gentle  thought  but  is  tender  with 
some  one's  sorrow.  Yes  !  and  any  time,  on  any 
matter,  when  the  word  of  the  Lord  comes,  seldom 
does  it  get  spoken,  but  through  the  self-sacrifice 
of  some  believing  soul. 

TASSO. 

O,  you  are  a  spirit  from  on  high,  and  your 
words  sublime  me.  And,  as  you  said,  these 
things  of  earth  have  been  looked  into  from  heav- 
en, and  been  pitied. 

SPIRIT. 

And  been  gloried  in,  too.  Of  the  millions  of 
souls  that  are  ushered  into  this  earth,  the  birth 
of  every  one  is  a  joy  in  heaven,  though  with 
trembling,  on  account  of  its  being  made  subject 
to  vanity.  But  there  is  a  warmer  interest  in 
those  greater  souls  that  are  born,  only  one  or  two 


EUTHANASY.  427 

in  a  generation  ;  for  their  greatness  is  great  ca- 
pacity, and  that  of  woe  as  well  as  bliss,  and  of  sin 
as  well  as  goodness  ;  and  then,  in  their  wrestles 
with  doubt  and  despair,  they  can  be  but  liiile 
helped  by  others.  Over  one  sinner  ending  his 
sinfulness,  there  is  joy  in  heaven  ;  and  there  is 
more  than  that  over  one  with  whom  mortality  is 
ending,  —  some  greater  soul,  that  has  been  more 
greatly  tried,  —  a  man,  after  all  his  wrongs,  with 
a  heart  of  love,  and  eyes  of  faith,  —  and,  besides, 
who  has  the  peace  of  God  in  his  mind,  and  on 
his  lips  words  that  men  are  the  better  for.  You 
look  doubtingly  ;  but  it  is  of  yourself  that  I  have 
been  speaking,  Torquato. 

TASSO. 

Of  me  !     O,  of  me  ! 

SPIRIT. 

Have  you  never  considered  what  the  way  of 
Providence  is  with  the  souls  of  men,  though  you 
are  yourself  one  of  its  greater  agents  ?  Life  is  a 
lesson  from  God  ;  but  the  meaning  of  it  is  what 
men  have  to  be  taught  by  one  another,  the  child 
by  its  parent,  and  the  young  man  by  his  elders. 
Nature  is  God  about  you.  It  is  a  great  truth  ; 
but  most  men  see  only  as  much  of  it  as  is  shown 
them.  And  who  are  they  that  show  it  ?  The 
poets  who  are  raised  up  from  time  to  time.  As, 
age  after  age,  men  have  their  understandings  en- 
larged, there  are  those  born  who  can  speak  the 


428  EUTHANASY. 

greater  thoughts  that  are  wanted,  and  who,  by 
saying  what  they  feel  themselves,  make  others 
feel  more  nobly.  These  are  the  interpreters  of 
God  to  man  ;  and  some  of  them  have  been  known 
as  theologians,  and  some  as  philosophers,  and 
some  as  poets,  and  some  as  prophets.  And, 
Torquato,  you  yourself  are  one  among  them. 
Yes,  among  souls,  your  spiritual  estate  is  become 
like  a  principality  and  a  power. 

TASSO. 

I  become  a  power  among  spirits  !  Then  it  is 
by  suffering  I  have  grown  strong.  And  God  be 
thanked  I  did  suffer.  O  ye  years  of  agony  !  By 
you  I  was  set  apart  from  among  men  ;  but  it  was 
for  my  consecration.  My  baptism  of  fire  !  bless- 
ed for  ever  and  ever  be  the  season  of  it !  What ! 
Do  I —  Can  it  be  .''  It  is.  Yes,  it  is  you,  Le- 
onora. My  life,  my  love  !  Your  hand,  Leono- 
ra ;  give  me  your  hand.  O,  1  cannot  feel  it  ! 
But  your  presence  I  do  feel ;  into  my  soul  I  feel 
it,  —  and  so  strangely,  so  blessedly!  But  why 
have  not  I  known  you  before,  though  always  my 
spirit  has  trembled  in  me  .''  Tell  me,  dearest  Le- 
onora, why  have  not  I  known  you  sooner  ? 

SPIRIT. 

You  would  not  have  known  me  now,  but  for 
your  greater  faith.  The  more  God  is  believed 
in,  the  better  his  ministers  are  known.  You  have 
understood  pain   and  misfortune  as  having  been 


EUTHANASY.  429 

sent  to  you  from  God  ;  and  so  all  other  messen- 
gers are  easy  for  you  to  recognize.  And  so  it  is 
that  I  have  been  known  to  you,  Torquato,  —  my 
Torquato. 

TASSO. 

Gone  !  She  is  gone  ;  and  how  suddenly  ! 
Gone  into  heaven  she  is,  for  I  saw  her  enter  ;  and 
as  she  went  in,  she  smiled  and  pointed  with  her 
hand.  And  as  I  looked,  I  saw  spirits  standing 
together,  —  cherubim  and  seraphim,  the  spirits 
of  love  and  of  understanding,  —  and  some  with 
palms  in  their  hands,  like  martyrs.  And  there 
was  one  like  Dante  ;  and  still  his  look  is  thought- 
ful, but  happy  also,  and  like  the  face  of  one  who 
sees  into  some  mystery  of  God,  how  joyful  it  is. 
The  brightness  in  which  those  spirits  stood  to- 
gether was  like  twilight  to  the  infinite  splendor 
beyond.  It  was  as  though  they  were  waiting 
there  for  some  soul  freshly  coming  out  of  this 
dark  earth.  And  it  was  for  me  perhaps,  —  O, 
perhaps  for  me  !  Come  over  me,  death  !  thou 
delicious  change  !  For  thou  art  immortality,  and 
heaven,  and  sight  of  Leonora.  Ay,  she,  —  O, 
she  has  gone  through  this  change  that  is  changing 
me  !  And  through  her,  death  is  grown  sweet ; 
for  it  is  to  where  she  is  that  my  spirit  is  being 
drawn.  Ah,  Leonora  !  I  do  not  see  her.  But 
she  is  in  God,  and  so  am  I,  and  my  death  will  be 
through  God.     Yes  !  blessed  be  the  God  who  is 


430 


EUTHANASy. 


in  her,  and  in  me,  and  in  our  love  for  one  anoth- 
er !  He  is  in  all  things,  and  in  death.  And  so, 
as  the  eyes  of  a  believer  open,  all  things  grow 
beautiful,  very  beautiful,  and  death  becomes  di- 
vine. 


EUTHANASY. 


431 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  O  dreary  life  !  "  we  cry,  "  O  dreary  life  !  " 

And  still  the  generations  of  the  birds 

Singthrougli  our  sighing,  and  the  flocks  and  herds 

Serenely  live  while  we  are  keeping  strife 

With  Heaven's  true  purpose  in  us,  as  a  knife 

Against  which  we  may  struggle.    Ocean  girds 

Unslackened  the  dry  land  :  savannah  swards 

Unweary  sweep:  hills  watch,  unworn;  and  rife, 

Meek  leaves  drop  yearly  from  the  forest-trees, 

To  show  above  the  unwasted  stars  that  pass 

In  their  old  glory.     O  thou  God  of  old  ! 

Grant  me  some  smaller  grace  than  comes  to  these ;  — 

But  so  much  patience  as  a  blade  of  grass 

Grows  by,  contented,  through  the  heat  and  cold. 

E.  B.  Brownino. 

AUBIN. 

O  THIS  westerly  wind  and  sunshine  !  How 
the  white  clouds  drive,  and  the  poplar-leaves 
glance  and  rustle  !  Every  breath  is  health  this 
morning.  So  lofty  and  so  blue  the  sky  is,  and 
such  fresh  thoughts  one  has  in  looking  up  at  it. 
It  is  poetry  and  religion  to  be  in  the  open  air 
to-day  ;  is  it  not  ?  It  is  as  though  God  were 
abroad.  What  am  I  saying  ?  As  though  the 
Divinity  were  not  omnipresent,  and  present  al- 
ways and  everywhere  alike  !  I  mean,  this  morn- 
ing feels  as  Eden  may  have  felt,  when,  in.  the 
cool  of  the  day,  Adam  became  sensible  of  the 
Lord  God's  presence  among  the  trees. 


'1IJ2  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  a  very  pleasant  morning.  I  looked  loi 
you  in  the  garden,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

In  autumn  I  do  not  much  like  the  sight  of  a 
garden. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  melancholy  ;  it  certainly  is. 

AUBIN. 

The  melancholy  of  the  woods  I  like  ;  but  in 
the  blighted  prettiness  of  a  garden  there  is  no 
promise  of  a  revival.  But  the  woods  look  so 
grandly  in  decay,  that  it  is  as  though  they  knew 
of  their  being  to  be  green  again.  So  when  I 
saw  how  the  dahlias  were  blackened  with  the 
frost,  and  how  one  flower  hung  its  head,  and 
another  was  dropped  on  to  the  ground,  I  came 
through  the  garden,  and  I  have  been  sitting  in  the 
field  here  and  meditating. 

MARHAM. 

What  about  } 

AUBIN. 

Sit  on  the  bench  here,  and  I  will  tell  you, 
uncle.  But  I  must  remember  first,  which  I  do 
not  think  I  can  very  well. 

MARHAM. 

O,  you  have  been  dreaming,  Oliver  ;  and 
pleasantly,  I  hope. 

AUBIN. 

No,  I  have  not  been  dreaming,  but  only   feel- 


EUTHANASY.  433 

rag.  I  have  been  feeling  like  a  portion  of  the 
scene  about  me,  and  as  though  my  being  were 
blended  with  that  of  the  trees  and  the  fields  ;  so 
that  the  leaves  fell  as  though  through  my  spirit  ; 
and  it  was  not  as  though  I  heard  with  my  ears 
the  robin  sing,  but  as  though  he  sung  within  me. 
And  I  felt  just  as  the  trees  and  hedges  and  grass 
might  feel  together,  if  they  could  know  of  their 
life's  subsiding  into  a  wintry  pause. 

MARHAM. 

Yellow,  and  then  naked,  and  then  as  green 
again  as  ever  !  I  ought  not  to  have  seen  this  in 
the  woods  seventy  times,  without  myself  growing 
old  the  more  cheerfully.  It  is  a  day  for  think- 
ing, this  is  ;  and  every  autumn,  for  a  few  days, 
it  is  as  though  there  were  a  power  in  the  air 
making  us  be  thoughtful. 

AUBIN. 

The  spirit  of  the  season  is  on  us,  and  it  is 
as  though  from  every  thing  about  us  we  were 
whispered,  "  Now  know  yourselves."  And  a 
very  'seasonable  warning  it  is,  after  the  content- 
ment that  summer  has  given  us,  in  health,  and 
warmth,  and  plenty,  and  light.  Summer  would 
make  us  self-sufficient ;  but  autumn  says  to  us, 
that  we  are  mortal  :  very  mildly  she  speaks  ;  but 
if  she  is  not  minded,  then  the  voice  of  winter  is 
the  more  terrific,  when  he  comes  roaring  out  of 
the  north.  And  if  a  man  dies  at  the  coming  of 
28 


434  EUTHANASY. 

winter,  he  dies  the  more  mournful  if  he  has  not 
talked  quietly  with  the  autumn  just  gone. 

MARHAM. 

Poor  man  !  But  we  do  not  any  of  us  feel  as 
we  ought,  that  here  we  have  no  continuing  city. 

AUBIN. 

Except  on  a  day  like  this. 

"MARHAM. 

Ay,  this  is  an  old  man's  day. 

AUBIN. 

And  an  invalid's. 

MARHAM. 

The  leaves  are  fading  about  us,  and  so  the 
more  submissively  do  we  ourselves  fade  as  a 
leaf. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  our  feelings  are  soothed  by  nature  about 
us  ;  and  then,  as  soon  as  they  are  calmed,  they 
grow  hopeful  of  themselves,  and  our  walk  among 
the  dead  leaves  becomes  triumphant,  and  we  say 
that  we  know  that  our  Redeemer  lives. 

MARHAM. 

Among  the  works  of  God  our  feelings  get 
soothed,  and  grow  prophetic  of  immortality  ; 
but  not  so  among  the  works  of  men,  not  so  in 
towns.  In  a  town  every  thing  is  so  noisy  and 
bustling  ;  and  it  is  as  though  there  were  not  much 
thought  in  it  fit  for  an  old  man  to  have,  and  not 
much  feeling  about  it  that  he  can  well  share  in. 


EUTHANASY.  435 

AUBIN. 

Yet  men  grow  old  in  towns,  and  faster  than  in 
the  country,  perhaps.  And  in  a  large  city,  the 
clock  never  strikes  twice  in  the  hearing  of  the 
same  population  ;  for  within  the  hour,  a  child  has 
been  born  and  some  soul  has  been  taken.  O,  in 
the  sight  of  God  who  sees  it  all,  how  the  popula- 
tion of  a  city  must  be  ever  'changing  !  In  one 
home  there  is  a  babe  just  born,  and  in  the  next 
house  is  stretched  the  cold  length  of  a  corpse. 
Always  there  is  one  gen^ation  going,  and  another 
coming.  So  -that  in  a  city  the  inhabitants  may 
be  as  many  as  ever,  but  they  are  never  the  same, 
even  for  a  few  hours.  Year  by  year,  and  hour 
by  hour,  the  population  renews  itself ;  the  son  in 
the  place  of  the  father,  and  youth  out  of  decay. 
Now,  in  an  aged  heart,  is  there  no  sympathy  with 
this  ?  Nay,  in  this  life  of  a  city,  ever  fresh  and 
strong,  is  not  there  something  like  the  immortality 
of  the  soul  ?  is  not  there  what  shows  how  the 
inward  spirit  may  renew  itself  through  the  very 
perishing  of  the  outward  form  .''  For  in  some 
cities,  energy,  wisdom,  frankness,  friendliness, 
and  little  peculiarities  of  mind,  are  the  same  from 
age  to  age,  while  the  men,  and  the  buildings,  and 
the  streets,  are  changing  every  day. 

MARHABI. 

Your  faith  is  like  an  evergreen,  for  it  is  always 
so  fresh  ;  and  in  the  smoke  of  a  city  it  does  not 
fail,  but  even  there  it  smells  of  the  country. 


436  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Why,  uncle,  you  are  quite  figurative. 

MARHAM. 

Am  I,  Oliver,  am  I  ?  Well,  then,  more  ex- 
actly, your  faith  seems  to  me  like  ivy,  which  not 
only  mantles  human  homes  and  keeps  them 
warm,  and  makes  them  beautiful,  but  which 
climbs  round  old  castles,  and  lives  on  their  walls, 
making  it  seem  as  though  the  very  stones  are 
not  so  dead  but  that  Hfe  is  to  be  had  out  of  them. 

AU^^N. 

Well,  uncle,  well ! 

MARHAM. 

Ivy  is  the  beauty  of  old  ruins  ;  and  your  faith 
is  not  unlike  it,  for  it  springs  up  so  strongly  from 
amidst  fallen  hopes.  But  just  now  you  said  you 
did  not  like  the  sight  of  a  garden  in  autumn  ;  why 
do  not  you  ? 

AUBIN. 

Because  it  is  only  melancholy.  For  within 
the  fence  of  a  garden,  decay  is  not  wide  enough 
to  be  sublime.  But  in  the  fields  and  woods,  it  is. 
There,  decay  is  so  vast  as  to  be  grand.  And 
at  any  sublime  sight,  the  soul  feels  herself  immor- 
tal. For  whether  purely,  or  justly,  or  kindly,  or 
devoutly,  the  more  we  feel,  the  more  certainly 
immortal  we  feel.  And  in  such  experiences 
there  is  what  is  worth  regard,  ay,  and  thanks- 
giving,—  special  thanks  to  God.     For  often  our 


EUTHANASY.  437 

holiest  efforts  are  discouraged  ;  and  while  making 
some  of  our  loftiest  attempts,  it  is  as  though  we 
were  spoken  to  by  God  ;  and  as  though  he  said 
to  us,  "  Fear  not ;  for  it  is  into  my  bosom  you 
are  striving  ;  be  nothing  chilled."  And  then,  for 
a  few  moments,  there  is  the  warmth  of  immortal- 
ity about  our  souls. 

MARHAM. 

So  that  we  feel  best  what  we  are  to  be,  when 
we  are  what  we  ought  to  be.  A  gust  of  wind  ! 
Down  come  the  leaves  ! 

Like  leaves  on  trees  the  race  of  man  is  found, 
Now  green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground. 
So  generations  in  their  course  decay,      , 
So  perish  these,  when  those  have  passed  away. 

And  long,  long  ago  perished  Homer  and  his  lis- 
teners. 

AUBIN. 

Perished  ?  Not  he  !  For,  to  our  knowledge, 
the  very  words  of  his  mouth  are  living.  And  his 
Iliad  is  brotherhood  for  Homer  with  men  of  all 
nations  and  times. 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  and  with  ourselves.  The  leaves  fall  about 
us  just  as  he  heard  them  fall  ;  and  the  same 
thoughts  come  into  our  minds  as  did  into  his  with 
the  sound  ;  and  we  think  how%  from  the  tree  of 
life,  human  existences  are  for  ever  being  loosened 
and  shed  like  leaves. 


EUTHANASY. 
AUBIN. 

How  the  air  smells  of  dead  leaves  !  Decay 
decay,  everywhere  decay  !  All  things,  every- 
where, look  exhausted.  So  that  to-day  feels  like 
a  day  out  of  some  Greek  Olympiad,  or  as  though 
it  had  been  kept  for  us  out  of  some  Egyptian 
cycle,  or  Chaldean  year.  For  all  things  do  feel 
so  old  ! 

MARHAM. 

To  you,  do  they,  Oliver  ?  It  is  the  melan- 
choly of  the  season,  and  the  reverie  that  comes 
of  the  warm,  still  day.  You  had  been  sitting  here 
some  time  when  I  found  you.  What  had  you 
been  thihking  of  ?     Your  thoughts  were 

AUBIN. 

They  were  with  the  men  of  old  time,  with  the 
population  of  Nineveh  and  Babylon,  and  the 
builders  of  the  Pyramids,  and  the  dwellers  of 
Enoch,  the  first  city.  I  have  been  thinking  how 
this  earth  has  been  sailed  upon  by  the  Phoenicians, 
been  travelled  about  by  Abraham  and  his  camels, 
been  traversed  and  fought  on  by  Roman  armies, 
been  swept  over  by  Goths  and  Huns  from  the 
North,  and  always  from  east  to  west  been  the 
pathway  of  civilization. 

MAKHAM. 

It  is  a  curious  thought,  what  this  earth  has 
been  in  different  ages  of  it,  —  the  pasture-ground 
of  the  patriarchs,  the  quarry  of  Egyptian  builders, 
and  the  battle-field  of  the  Romans. 


EUTHANASY.  439 

AUBIN. 

Once  this  earth  was  the  floor  of  the  bridal 
bower  of  Adam  and  Eve,  and  many  nights  that 
was  all  it  was  to  all  mankind.  But  now  it  is  the 
cornfield,  and  the  meadow,  and  the  garden,  and 
the  hearth  of  many  milHon  families.  And  it  is 
become  besides  the  graveyard  of  nations.  Grave- 
yard, did  I  say  ?  Well,  so  it  is  ;  and  it  is  the 
birthplace  of  souls  as  well. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is  ;  so  it  \s  !  Yes,  it  is  !  I  am  wonder- 
ing what  it  is,  Oliver,  that  makes  what  you  say  be 
so  very  persuasive  of  an  hereafter.  I  cannot  tell 
whether  it  is  your  voice,  or  what  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  we  will  thank  God  that —  But  come 
how  it  may  —  Dear  uncle,  what  I  mean  is,  that 
into  a  mind  not  superstitious,  whatever  way  faith 
comes,  it  cannot  but  come  rightly.  And  I  would 
say  this  ;  that  there  is  a  state  of  mind  —  and  I 
think  it  is  a  reasonable  and  a  right  state  of  mind 
—  in  which  nearly  every  human  circumstance  is 
suggestive  of  immortality,  —  even  those  matters, 
I  mean,  that  are  thought  the  gloomiest.  And  so 
the  universality  of  death  is  to  me  the  certainty  of 
life  after  it. 

MARHABI. 

But  from  some  poets  one  might  learn  that  the- 
uniformity  of  death  is  the  frighifulness  of  it. 


440  EUTHANAST. 

AUBIN. 

Ay,  death  makes  no  exceptions.  Righteous- 
ness is  cut  down  uncrowned  ;  honesty  perishes 
without  having  proved  the  best  policy  ;  men  that 
called  on  God  die  unanswered  ;  and  many  a  dis- 
ciple dies,  with  many  a  Christian  promise  not 
kept  to  him.  Now  these  are  the  things  that  make 
existence  feel  unfinished  at  death.  And  so  it  is 
that  many  things  that  are  untoward  in  this  life 
point  toward  another. 

MARHAM.  " 

They  do  ;  so  they  do.  Down  come  the  leaves 
again  !     O,  what  a  shower  of  them  ! 

AUBIN. 

And  so,  because  we  men  fall  like  them,  we 
cannot  rot  like  them.  Good  men  die  as  early  as 
the  bad  ;  and  if  one  bad  man  dies  the  sooner  for 
his  vice,  there  is  a  good  mah  dies  the  earlier  for 
his  virtue,  for  his  self-denial,  and  his  poverty  ; 
for  poverty  is  not  the  less  killing  for  having  been 
nobly  incurred.  Good  and  bad  look  alike  in 
death,  and  so  death  itself  cannot  be  what  it  looks. 

MARHAM. 

If  death  makes  good  and  bad  be  alike,  then  it 
is  only  a  seeming,  or  else  for  a  very  little  while  ; 
that  is  your  meaning,  is  not  it  ? 

AUBIN. 

»     Death  is   not   what  it  looks  ;    cannot  be  and 
must  not  be  believed  so. 


EUTHANASY.  441 

MARHAM. 

Cannot  be  and  must  not  be  !  And  saying  so, 
do  we  know  what  we  do  say  ?  Because  death  is 
God's  causing.  And  as  regards  Providence, 
what  must  or  must  not  be  is  not  for  man  to  say. 

AUBIN. 

Out  of  his  self-will  it  is  not.  As  to  death,  man 
v'annot  speak  out  of  his  own  knowled'ge  ;  but  he 
oan  and  may  out  of  the  spirit  of  God.  For  in 
good  men,  the  Spirit  itself  does  bear  witness  with 
their  spirits. 

MARHAM. 

In  the  saints  of  God  it  does. 

AUBIN. 

And  in  all  disciples,  according  as  they  are  more 
or  less  Christian.  In  yourself,  uncle,  there  is 
the  witness  of  the  Spirit :  there  is,  I  know,  for 
sometimes  I  hear  it  speaking  in  your  voice.  Un- 
cle, there  are  persons  dead,  about  whom  I  have 
feelings  which  I  dare  not  distrust.  Once  I  was  in 
the  death-chamber  of  a  sufferer  for  righteousness' 
sake,  —  a  man  that  had  died  in  his  virtue.  My 
feelings  were  of  awe  and  triumph  ;  and  while  in 
the  room,  every  breath  was  like  inspiration  in  me, 
and  I  said,  ''  I  know  that  his  Redeemer  liveth." 

MARHAM. 

A  friend  of  yours,  was  not  he  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.     The  day  he  was  buried  was  just 


442  EUTHANASY. 

such  a  day  as  this.  He  was  buried  under  an 
elm-tree,  and  the  leaves  fell  on  to  the  coffin  and 
into  the  grave  softly,  and  so  fast  !  It  was  as 
though  nature  were  grieving  over  him.  And, 
indeed,  he  was  a  man  whose  love  the  very  trees 
might  miss.  For  in  his  eyes  they  were  more  than 
wood  and  leaves  ;  and  what  Moses  saw  in  one 
bush,  he  saw  something  of  in  every  forest  and 
shrub.  And  for  him,  there  was  not  a  tree  but 
had  burning  in  it  the  presence  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

That  manner  of  sight  I  should  be  sure  he  had 
from  you.  A  good  man,  a  very  good  man,  he 
was  ;  so  I  have  heard  you  say. 

AUBIN. 

And  so  he  was :  and  he  died  in  his  goodness, 
and  almost  through  it.  And  at  his  grave-side, 
my  thoughts  asked,  ''Why  was  this  ?  for  cannot 
goodness  be  so  good  as  that  none  should  be  the 
worse  for  it  any  way  .-^ "  There  was  no  answer 
made  me  but  silence  ;  though  for  a  thinker  that  is 
enough.  And  as  I  turned  away  from  the  grave, 
there  was  in  me  what  was  like  the  Divine  voice 
asking,  "  About  what  I  am  designing  to  do  with 
you  mortals,  why  art  thou  doubtful  ?  for  hast  thou 
not  known  me  .''  "  And  then  1  said  to  myself, 
"  Ay,  why  at  all  do  I  doubt  God  ?  For  justice 
and  goodness  in  me  are  his  inspiration,  and  they 
prophesy  of  what  his  Providence  will  do.     Yes, 


EUTHANASY.  448 

and  God  will  be  better  than  my  goodness,  and  so 
my  friend  will  prove  happier  than  my  hopes." 
And  so  I  grew  cheerful,  and  left  him 

Where  his  fathers  sleep  in  their  hillocks  green. 

A  beautiful  line,  is  not  it  ?  It  is  the  Swedish 
Tegner's. 

MARHAM. 

And  you  have  no  exception  to  make  to  it ; 
have  not  you  ?  I  have  none  myself.  But  always 
you  will  have  it,  that  the  real  man  is  what  no 
graveyard  ever  gets  ;  for  you  so  earnestly  distin- 
guish between  body  and  soul.  But,  indeed,  it  is 
a  very  forcible  line,  and  you  may  well  like  it. 

AUBIN. 

It  makes  one  feel  as  though  in  the  grave  there 
were  sleepers,  but  not  dead  bodies  ;  and  as  though 
the  earth  were  warm  about  them,  and  conscious 
of  having  them  lie  in  her  bosom. 

MARHAM. 

Mother-earth  !  That  fond  phrase  of  the 
Greeks  !     Mother-earth  ! 

AUBIN. 

Ay  !  and  cannot  one  imagine  her  crying  to  the 
Father  of  spirits,  for  pity  on  the  dead  bodies  in 
her  bosom,  —  children  that  have  lost  their  breath, 
but  her  children  still  ?  And  now  if  such  a  toice 
from  earth  to  heaven  could  reasonably  be,  then 
always  it  is  as  though  it  really  were  crying.      And 


444  EUTHANASY. 

there  is  in  the  mind  of  God  the  feeling  that  such 
a  cry  would  make  ;  for  God  not  only  answers 
prayer,  but  anticipates  it.  So  that,  from  among 
her  sister  planets,  whatever  this  earth  could  right- 
ly pray  for  for  her  children,  already  God  is  grant- 
ing them,  or  else  he  is  intending. 

MARHAM. 

My  prayer  is  pure  ;  O  earth,  cover  not  thou 
my  blood  !  —  So  Job  says,  and  then  begs  the 
earth  not  to  silence  his  cry.  In  the  Scriptures 
there  are  many  passages  which  are  as  though  the 
earth  could  think  and  feel. 

AUBIN. 

And  as  though  she  could  speak.  And,  O,  if 
she  could,  if  she  could  !  And  if  she  did,  for  all 
the  sufferers  in  her  !  If  only  men's  sighs  lived  on 
the  air,  we  could  not  bear  the  sound.  But  it  is 
as  though  God  did  hear  what  man  would  not  bear 
to  hear  ;  for  to  his  nature  it  is  possibU\  and  to 
his  almightiness  it  would  be  endurable,  and  in 
the  ear  of  his  foreknowledge  it  would  be  a  sub- 
lime sound :  for  as  he  listens  from  everlastmg  to 
everlasting,  it  is  as  though  voices  that  are  anguish 
one  moment  are  crying  aloud  with  all  angels  the 
next.  But,  indeed,  with  God,  past,  present,  and 
future  are  one ;  and  to  his  eyes,  in  the  sowing  of 
tear*,  there  is  ripe  at  once  the  golden  harvest  of 

joy- 


EUTHANASY.  445 

MARHAM. 

Ay,  we  will  think  of  what  our  destiny  looks  to 
God  ;  and  that  shall  comfort  us. 

AUBIN. 

Tt  ought  to.  And  then  we  are  members  of  a 
family.  And  so  we  will  think  what  the  human 
race  must  be  in  the  eyes  of  God,  —  dying,  dying, 
dying  everywhere,  — spirits  that  have  called  upon 
him,  souls  that  have  talked  with  him,  men  that 
have  felt  themselves  his  children.  And  in  death 
do  they  all  dissipate  into  nothing  ?  About  this 
earth  are  stretched  the  arms  of  God  ;  and  as  he 
clasps  it  to  himself,  is  it  only  an  urn  filling  with 
human  dust  ?  O,  no  !  God  is  infinite,  and  there 
must  be  infinity  in  every  purpose  of  his  ;  and  man 
is  the  only  creature  through  whom  that  infinity 
can  be  answered  in  this  world.  A  world  made 
for  nothing  !  That  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  And 
made  for  nothing  it  will  have  been,  without  man 
is  immortal.  'In  all  probability,  and  in  all  cer- 
tainty, this  earth  will  perish,  and  so  will  every 
daisy,  and  oak-tree,  and  animal,  and  bird,  and 
fish  ;  and  all  will  be  as  though  this  world  had  never 
been,  unless  there  is  a  survivorship  of  souls. 

MARHAM. 

And  that  there  will  be.     Blessed  be  God  ! 

AUBIN. 

Ay,  and  through  our  souls,  through  what  we 
have  had  to  do  with  it,  through  what  it  has  been 


446  EUTHANASY. 

to  US,  through  our  memories,  the  earth  itself  is 
eternal,  and  so,  again,  has  not  been  made  in  vain 
Either  this  world  is  a  folly,  or  man  is  immortal. 
Man's  future  life  is  the  wisdom  of  the  universe  ; 
and  so  doubt  it  we  must  not,  and  we  cannot. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  dear  Oliver,  your  words  are  too  posi- 
tive. I  do  not  mean  that  they  are  not  most  bless- 
edly true.  But  perhaps,  as  to  what  the  Divine 
purpose  in  the  world  must  be,  we  should  not  be 
confident,  but  only  confidently  trustful. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  you  are  right.  Still  it  is  pleasant,  — 
the  way  in  which  the  end  of  the  world  points  on 
to  the  immortality  of  man. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

So  as  for  herself  not  to  have  been  made  in 
vain,  the  earth  asks  another  life  for  men,  and  one 
to  outlast  her  own. 

MARHAM. 

And  it  is  theirs  ;  for  it  is  promised  them. 

AUBIN. 

So  many  things  are  such  witnesses  of  human 
immortality  ;  even  sin  is,  and  in  letters  that  are 
like  red  iron  in  the  dark.  '  Often  into  a  sinner 
there  Is  burnt  what  convinces  him  that  his  soul 
may  be  changed,  but  can  never,  never  die. 


EUTHANASY.  447 

MARHAM. 

Awful,  very  awful  proof  of  an  hereafter  !  and 
yet  most  of  us  can  guess  at  it,  out  of  our  own  ex- 
perience. 

AUBIN. 

So  we  can.  In  the  very  abasement  of  our  na- 
ture, we  are  consciously  immortal,  and  so  we  are 
in  our  highest  moods. 

MARHAM. 

But  in  them  we  may  be  deceived  ;  for  they  are 
our  proudest. 

AUBIN. 

I  was  thinking  of  those  only  that  are  our  purest. 

MARHAM. 

Right.  And  it  is  certain  that,  whether  visible 
or  not,  all  souls  must  have  in  them  foretokens  of 
their  infinite  continuance. 

AUBIN. 

Especially  towards  death  ;  some  souls,  as  it 
were,  plainly  going  home,  in  going  out  of  this 
world.  And  there  are  some  who  die,  and  are 
followed  by  their  works,  and  not  only  by  them, 
but  by  their  righteous  sufferings,  —  witnesses  that 
cry  aloud,  along  with  the  souls  of  the  martyrs 
under  the  altar,  "  How  long,  O  Lord,  holy  and 
true,  dost  thou  not  judge  ?  "  But  judgment  there 
will  be,  and  the  day  of  it  is  appointed  ;  so  we 
can  be  patient,  and  be  earnest  in  getting  ready 
for  it. 


448  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  what  are  those  verses  you  repeated  last 
night,  when  looking  out  of  the  window  ? 

AUBIN. 

What  I  remember  of  a  translation  from  Uhland. 
They  are  expressive  of  impatience  for  death  ;  and 
yet  I  like  them.  They  are  what  an  old  man 
might  well  say,  looking  up  at  the  stars  on  an  au- 
tumn night,  with  the  leaves  falling  about  him. 

O  golden  legends  yrrit  in  the  skies  ! 

I  turn  towards  you  with  longing  soul, 
And  list  to  tlie  awful  harmonies 

Of  the  spheres,  as  on  they  roll. 

0  blessed  rest !     O  royal  night ! 

Wherefore  seemeth  the  time  so  long, 
Till  I  see  yon  stars  in  their  fullest  light. 

And  list  to  their  loudest  song. 

In  the  day  we  do  not  see  the  stars,  but  night  brings 
us  in  sight  of  them  ;  and  that  night  of  nights,  the 
night  of  death,  will  carry  us  up  to  them,  and 
through  them,  and  beyond  them,  and  into  the 
bosom  of  the  Father,  as  we  may  well  believe. 

MARHAM. 

Amen  !  amen  ! 


F.UTHANASY.  44l> 


CHAPTER   XXXVTI. 

And  is  ihis  all  that  man  can  claim? 
la  this  our  longing's  final  aim  ? 
To  be  like  all  ihings  round,  —  no  more 
Than  pebbles  cast  on  Time's  gray  shore  ? 

Can  man  no  more  than  beasl  aspire 
To  know  his  being's  awful  Sire  ? 
And,  born  and  lost  on  Nature's  breast, 
No  blessing  seek  but  there  to  rest  ? 

John  Sterling. 

MARHAM. 

T  HAVE  been  reading  at  the  window  here,  and 
I  think,  Oliver,  in  two  books  at  once,  perhaps. 
For  my  eyes  have  been  straying,  now  and  then, 
from  this  book  of  grace  to  the  book  of  nature, 
outside.  And,  Ohver,  I  have  been  thinking,  that 
it  is  only  from  my  reading  in  the  Scriptures  that  I 
find  myself  encouraged  to  draw  nigh  to  God.  In 
the  book  of  nature  there  is  little  I  can  read  to 
encourage  me  ;  or  T  should  rather  say,  perhaps, 
there  is  very  little  encouragement  there  which  I 
can  read  of  myself.  For  I  cannot  doubt  that  to 
Jesus  all  nature  was  like  the  smile  of  God  ;  and 
to  the  Psalmist  it  would  appear,  sometimes,  to 
have  been  like  God  become  plain  about  them. 
But  they  are  only  the  true  children  of  God,  on 
whom  nature  does  not  frown  as  well  as  smile. 
29 


450  EUTHANASY. 

There  have  been  times  when  ahnost  I  could  have 
wondered,  that,  with  the  heavens  to  spread  him- 
self through,  God  should  care  about  having  a 
human  heart  for  his  temple.  Oliver,  J  cannot 
wonder  that  some  men  have  felt  their  own  noth- 
ingness so  painfully,  as  to  have  had  misgivings 
too  strong  for  their  faith  sometimes.  The  noth- 
ingness of  man  before  the  vastness  of  nature,  — 
it  is  only  a  wise  faith  that  can  bear  it,  with  the 
weight  with  which  it  sometimes  weighs  on  some 
minds.  And  there  has  been  an  unbelief,  which 
has  justified  itself  by  asking  scornfully  what  Da- 
vid would  have  asked  with  mingled  feelings  of 
humbleness,  awe,  and  trust,  —  What  is  man,  any 
man,  that  God  should  regard  him,  while  there  are 
stars  shining  in  the  heavens,  and  while  there  are 
the  sun  and  moon  of  his  making  ? 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  the  stars  do  not  glorify  God,  except 
through  the  mind  of  man.  The  sun  and  moon 
praise  God  only  with  such  rays  as  can  enter  the 
temple  of  a  man's  soul. 

MAEHAM. 

I  do  not  understand  you,  Oliver;  at  least,  I 
think  I  do  not. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  sound,  outside  of  the 
ear.  A  noise  is  made  by  the  air  being  made  to 
vibrate  ;    but  the   vibrations  of  the  air  become 


EUTHANASr.  451 

sound  only  b}'  their  striking  on   the  drum  of  the 
ear. 

MARHAM. 

Yes  ;  that  is  so,  I  suppose. 

AUBIN. 

And  not  in  a  bird's  or  a  dog's,  but  only  in  a 
man's  ear,  is  Handel's  Messiah  the  sublime  mu- 
sic which  it  is. 

MARHAM. 

Well,  that  is  true. 

AUBIN. 

And  now  what  was  the  world  before  it  could 
shape  itself  in  the  intelligent  mind  of  man  ?  And 
before  there  was  any  ear  at  all,  what  was  the 
world,  all  round  ?  what  else  but  silence  ?  Brooks 
ran  on  noiseless  beds,  and  rivers  went  over  noise- 
less falls,  and  seas  ebbed  and  flowed  in  silence. 
Breezes  played  without  a  whisper  ;  and  winds, 
high  winds,  blew  over  plains  and  through  forests, 
and  not  a  sound  did  they  make.  The  world  was 
a  silent  world,  before  the  ear  was  made  for  hear- 
ing. And  over  the  earth  there  was  no  beauty,  till 
the  human  eye  opened  on  it. 

MARHAM. 

Do  you  mean,  in  the  same  way  as  music  is  not 
music,  except  in  a  human  ear  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  for  the  same  reason  as  the  world  was 
a  silent  world  before  the  ear  was  fashioned  for  the 


452  ETJTHANAST. 

air  to  vibrate  on.  And  in  this  way  it  is  only 
through  man  that  the  stars  glorify  God.  The  sun 
and  moon  praise  God  through  me.  My  soul  is 
the  priest  that  nature  worships  through.  The 
mountains  are  dumb,  till  what  feelings  they  make 
in  me  speak  out.  The  valleys  rejoice  before 
God,  only  through  what  joy  they  make  me  glad 
with.  And  the  roar  of  the  sea  is  a  deep-toned 
anthem,  only  while  my  soul  is  like  a  temple  for  it 
to  sound  through. 

MARHAM. 

Yes  !  now  I  understand  you. 

ATJBIN. 

The  mountains  are  high,  but  they  are  not  to 
belittle  me  :  and  they  are  to  humble  me,  only  the 
same  wholesome  way  by  which,  myself,  I  feel  all 
the  lowlier  for  my  own  high  thoughts.  Nor  are 
the  stars  to  discourage  me  with  their  splendor ;  as 
though,  in  their  brightness,  I  could  be  minded  of 
God  only  a  little.  For  glorious  as  they  are,  they 
glorify  God  only  by  the  thoughts  they  make  me 
think  of  him.  And  it  is  by  their  rays  entering 
into  my  worship  that  the  sun  and  moon  praise 
God.  Day  and  night,  in  forests,  and  in  the 
depths  of  the  sea,  over  plains,  on  the  sides  of 
mountains,  and  up  the  regions  of  the  air,  God 
sees  how  good  are  all  things  of  his  making.  But 
it  is  in  the  temple  of  man's  soul,  that  he  listens 
for  how  they  worship  him. 


EUTHANASY.  45$ 

MARHAM. 

And  to  the  door  of  that  temple  comes  the  Holy 
Spirit,  too,  at  frequent  seasons.  A  high  thought, 
Oliver,  and  yet  not  a  proud  one  !  For  it  is  very 
sad,  and  it  is  awful  to  think,  how  there  are 
souls  God  listens  for  praises  in,  while  worship  in 
them  there  is  none  ;  how,  as  temples,  they  are 
foul  with  sin,  and  dark  with  ignorance,  and  are 
profaned,  day  and  night,  with  the  hateful  voice  of 
folly  speaking  in  them,  and  with  the  riot  of  the 
passions. 

AUBIN. 

O,  like  the  sacred  quiet  of  a  church  is  the 
peace  which  nature  would  make  in  the  soul  at 
times  !  Out  of  woods  and  off  lakes,  and  from 
over  fields  and  meadows,  there  are  thoughts, 
which  might  come  into  a  man's  mind,  bright  as 
angels  out  of  heaven.  Yes,  and  for  all  men  there 
are  high  seasons,  when  influences  from  nature 
might  enter  the  soul  and  make  in  it  a  holy  pres- 
ence like  that  of  angels  met  together,  and  a  feel- 
mg  of  praise  sublime  and  various,  like  that  of 
assembled  multitudes,  and  a  fervency  of  love  to 
God,  that  knows  him  draw  nigh,  O,  so  nigh  to 
the  soul  it  is  in  !  And  now  this  worship,  —  if 
there  is  none  in  the  soul,  because  it  is  wicked, 
then  what  a  fearful  thing  its  wickedness  is  !  Only 
through  my  mind  can  things  round  me  glorify 
God  ;  and  how  dreadful  a  matter  it  is,  if  my  mind 


464  EUTHANASY. 

is  so  that  it  hardens  itself  against  tender  influences, 
and  shuts  itself  against  devout  thoughts  ! 

MARHAM. 

It  is  ;  it  is  very  dreadful.  Of  earth  and  water, 
of  day  and  night,  of  the  four  seasons,  of  the  sun 
and  moon  and  stars, — of  all  these  in  their  wor- 
ship I  am  a  priest  unto  God.  And  if  I  am  un- 
holy, if  I  am  a  faithless  priest,  then  my  sin,  —  my 
sin,  —  it  is,as  wide  as  the  world,  and  it  reaches  to 
the  sky.  But  what  is  this  which  I  am  saying  ? 
Sin  is  against  God.  And  this  is  all  awful  consid- 
erations in  one. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  Yet,  uncle,  as  you  say,  it  is  a  dread- 
ful thought, — that  of  a  man's  so  imbruting  in 
heart,  as  to  become  insensible  to  the  atmosphere 
of  worship  he  is  living  in. 

MARHAM. 

Ah,  Oliver,  too  much  it  is  as  though  the  world 
were  only  for  our  waking  and  sleeping  in  ;  as 
though  the  earth  existed  only  for  us  to  gather,  and 
store,  and  eat  the  fruits  of  it. 

ATJBIN. 

While  really  there  are  uses  of  it,  which  are  not 
accomplished  in  our  stomachs. 

MARHAM. 

Nor  in  our  purses,  Oliver,  nor  in  the  fleshly 
mind. 


EUTHANASY.  455 

AUBIN. 

Nor  altogether  and  at  once  in  even  the  holiest 
soul.     For  the  uses  of  the  world  will  he  unending. 

MARHAM. 

And  so  not  a  moment  of  our  lives,  nor  one 
circumstance  of  them,  is  in  vain.  And  this  is 
great  comfort  to  know  of.  What  hours  1  spent 
at  school  still  last  on  in  my  mind.  What  books 
I  read  many  years  ago  still  teach  me,  in  some 
secret  way.  And  my  inclinations  now  bend  the 
way  they  do,  from  my  resolutions  of  many  years 
ago.  And  as  you  said  one  day,  Oliver,  so  it  is. 
There  is  an  eternal  purpose  in  the  world,  which 
gets  answered  in  us  ourselves,  —  in  the  gratitude 
to  God,  which  autunm  strengthens  in  us  ;  in  the 
reverence  of  the  Creator,  which  sun,  moon,  and 
stars  make  in  us  ;  in  the  awe,  with  which  mortality 
pervades  us  ;  and  in  the  beauty,  with  which  fair 
scenes  imbue  our  souls. 

AUBIN. 

My  thought,  uncle  ;  and  you  remember  it  as 
being  so  !  But  the  good  expression  of  it,  uncle, 
is  your  own,  certainly.  And  it  is  as  though  the 
thought  were  fresh  to  me.  But,  uncle,  I  was 
meaning  to  say,  that  I  think  there  are  other  uses 
of  the  world  to  us  than  we  know  of.  I  think 
it  is  likely  there  are  uses  to  us  of  the  world  that 
now  is,  which  will  begin  to  be  felt,  first  one  and 
then  another,  only  in  the  world  that  is  to  come. 


456  EUTHANASY. 

MARHAM. 

Oliver,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand  you 
quite  as  clearly  as  I  do  commonly. 

AUBIN. 

Hereafter  there  will  be  uses  of  this  world 
which  will  begin  in  us,  through  our  memories. 
I  think  there  is  no  day  so  poor,  but  it  is  enrich- 
ing me  for  ever.  Hereafter  it  will  prove,  per- 
haps, that  often,  and  in  the  simplest  way,  great 
wonders  are  entering  my  mind  without  my  know- 
ing of  them. 

MARHAM. 

I  think,  Oliver,  you  can  explain  your  thought 
a  little  more  clearly. 

AUBIN. 

For  the  world  about  us,  we  shall  be  the  bet- 
ter in  more  ways  than  we  know  of.  Of  the 
sounds  we  hear,  and  the  objects  we  see,  and 
of  the  matters  that  happen  to  us,  even  the  com- 
monest, more  will  come  than  we  suppose. 
Winter  and  summer,  whether  I  am  well  or 
ill,  of  every  day  I  live,  there  is  an  everlasting 
result  in  me  ;  and  so  there  is  of  every  action 
I  do ;  and  so  there  is  of  every  sensation  1 
have,  as  I  think.  And  I  have  so  many  thou- 
sand sensations  in  a  day,  and  so  many  million  in 
a  year  !  And  never  is  one  of  them  over  for  ever, 
as  I  think.  Possibly  I  may  feel  them  all  over 
again  ;  and    certainly  there   will  be  a  something 


EUTHANASY.  457 

of  them  last  on  in  me,  for  ever  and  ever.  They 
will  be  a  fountain  of  thought  and  feeling  in  me, 
for  ages. 

MARHAM. 

Yes  ;  matters  that  are  nothing  to  us  now  may 
be  very  wonderful  to  us  as  spirits. 

AUBIN. 

A  rock  may  be  itself  but  a  mass  of  sandy 
grains,  and  yet  be  the  fountain  of  a  stream, 
bright  to  look  at,  and  sweet  to  drink,  and  a  hun- 
dred miles  long  in  its  course,  and  green  and 
flowery  all  along  its  banks.  And  from  the  recol- 
lections growing  in  us,  there  is  to  be  a  stream  of 
profit,  I  have  no  doubt.  As  a  child,  the  feel- 
ing I  had  for  my  father  was  the  beginning  of 
what  I  felt  towards  God.  And  there  is  many 
a  feeling  made  in  us  now  by  strangers  to  us,  by 
our  benefactors,  and  by  our  friends  and  relatives, 
that  will  hereafter  and  in  infinity  be  the  beginnings 
of  new,  and  dear,  and  sublime  emotions  in  us. 
And  all  objects  about  us  are  turning  to  spiritual 
seed  in  our  minds,  with  our  hearing  and  seeing 
them. 

MARHAM. 

And  God  makes  the  good  soil  of  the  human 
mind  be  infinitely  and  very  variously  fruitful. 
What  seed  is  sown  in  it  now  will  grow  to  a 
glorious  harvest  hereafter,  underneath  the  new 
heavens. 


JM  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

In  some  age  or  other,  I  shall  say  of  some 
heavenly  marvel,  perhaps,  "  It  is  wonderful, 
wonderful !  And  yet  in  the  earth  it  was  hinted 
to  me,  by  the  tones  of  the  wind,  and  the  way 
the  clouds  went  over  my  head."  I  think,  per- 
haps every  sight  in  the  world  that  now  is  may 
^vail  us  in  the  world  that  is  to  come.  On  the 
golden  floor  of  heaven,  it  may  be  the  better  for 
me  that  I  have  noticed  even  the  worm's  way  in 
and  out  of  the  earth.  It  may  be  that  some  of 
our  little  observations  now  will  open  into  wonder- 
ful knowledge  hereafter.  A  plant  comes  out  of 
the  ground  a  little  bud.  It  opens  and  grows, 
and  blossoms,  and  seeds,  and  then  dies.  Now, 
there  is  much  more  in  this  than  I  know  of 
yet ;  much,  very  much  more.  Yes,  yes  !  If 
I  knew  all  that  is  to  be  learned  from  a  daisy 
even,  I  should  be  less  of  a  stranger  to  God  than  I 
am.  But  I  shall  know  it  some  time.  All  about 
me,  tiree  unto  tree  is  uttering  speech,  and  flower 
unto  flower  is  showing  knowledge.  But  it  is  in 
a  language  that  I  do  not  well  understand,  but 
which  I  shall  remember  ;  and  so  which  I  shall 
learn  the  whole  meaning  of  hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

See,  Oliver  !  Look  at  yonder  rose-bush,  and 
Sfee  the  flowers  under  it.  Flowers,  sweet  flow- 
ers ! 


EUTHANASY.  45^ 

AUBIN. 

Gentle  words  they  are,  that  come  out  of  the 
earth  ;  and  they  tell  us,  out  of  the  depths,  the 
same  thing  the  stars  witness  from  the  heights 
above,  that  everywhere  life  is  beautiful.  Flow- 
ers are  pretty  to  look  at  now ;  but  hereafter 
they  will  be  recollections,  that  will  blossom  in 
us  again,  and  turn  to  seeds  of  new  thought.  For, 
as  I  think,  there  is  nothing  1  have  ever  seen  or 
heard  which  I  shall  not  remember,  —  not  a  gnat 
in  the  sunshine,  nor  a  water-fly  on  a  pool,  nor  a 
swallow  in  the  air.  I  have  wondered  over  a  lit- 
tle bird  coming  out  of  an  egg-shell  for  a  little 
life  of  four  or  five  years,  and  over  a  sparrow  as 
having  been  created  to  become  the  prey  of  some 
hawk,  and  over  the  way  of  a  snail,  as  being  made 
instinctive  for  it,  and  over  the  waking  of  a  tor- 
pid worm  in  spring.  Now,  some  time  or  other, 
these  wonderings  of  mine  will  turn  to  strange, 
unearthly  knowledge,  and  be  the  beginnings  of 
fresh  ways  of  feeling  in  me,  and  even  perhaps 
of  worship. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  in  our  memories,  there  is  more  storing 
up  than  we  can  tell.  And  God  is  so  wonderful, 
that  what  is  nothing  as  a  sight,  or  an  event,  may 
prove  very  precious  as  a  recollection.  Oliver. 
As  you  have  been  saying,  yourself. 


460  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

Sometimes  I  remember  little  matters  of  ten 
and  twenty  years  ago,  how  1  plucked  a  flower 
somewhere,  or  how  I  heard  a  bird  sing,  or  how 
I  had  a  person  speak  to  me.  Perhaps  I  have 
not  remembered  these  things  once  before  ;  yet  the 
recollections  of  them  come  into  my  mind  quite 
perfect  ;  and  trivial  as  they  are,  and  because 
they  are  so  trivial,  they  are  awful  almost.  For 
I  cannot  help  feeling  that,  strange  as  this  memory 
is,  the  purpose  of  it  must  be  stranger  still.  The 
other  day  I  recollected  something,  not  only  the 
action  itself,  and  exactly  how  I  did  it,  but  how 
the  air  felt  the  while,  the  way  the  sun  shone, 
and  a  hay-field  smelled,  how  two  or  three  trees 
stood,  and  how  a  foxglove  looked  that  was  nigh 
me.  What  thousands  and  millions  of  recollec- 
tions there  must  be  in  us !  And  every  now  and 
then  one  of  them  becomes  known  to  us  ;  and 
it  shows  us  what  spiritual  depths  are  growing  in 
us,  what  mines  of  memory. 

MARHAM. 

Even  our  idle  words,  whatever  they  may  be, 
will  have  to  be  accounted  for  in  the  day  of  judg- 
ment. So,  it  is  very  likely,  there  are  lasting  on 
in  our  memories  all  the  sights  we  have  ever  seen, 
the  actions  we  have  ever  done,  the  thoughts  we 
have  ever  had,  the   words  we  have  ever  heard, 


EUTHANASY.  461 

the  books   we   have   ever  read,  and  the  prayers 
that  ever  we  have  prayed. 

AUBIN. 

And,  uncle,  to  the  soul,  all  these  recollections 
will  be  of  use,  some  time  or  other,  but  in  what 
way,  and  to  what  strange  purpose,  we  cannot 
tell,  nor  even  guess.  And  no  wonder  !  For 
in  their  earliest  days,  what  did  the  dwellers  of 
the  earth  know  of  what  uses  were  under  the  soil  ? 
Nor  would  they  have  guessed  them,  even  had 
they  been  shown  what  beds  of  clay,  sand,  stone, 
and  coal  were  down  under  the  green  turf.  They 
never  would  have  thought  of  there  being  beautiful 
and  comfortable  dwellings  to  be  shaped  out  of 
clay  and  stone;  nor  would  they  ever  have  thought 
of  there  being  heat  and  light  in  a  black  mineral. 
And  so,  perhaps,  even  in  our  darker  recollections, 
there  will  prove  hereafter  to  be  some  pure  and 
bright  use  ;  and  in  the  millions  and  milhons  of 
remembrances  we  are  getting,  there  are  strange 
joys  preparing  in  us,  and  new  manifestations  of 
the  understanding. 

MARHAM. 

And  now,  Oliver,  I  understand  you.  The 
more  I  think  of  life,  the  more  wonderful  it  feels. 
But  it  is  with  God  and  immortality,  it  is  won- 
derful. 

AUBIN. 

A  plant  draws  earth  and  water  into  itself,  and 


462  EUTHANASY. 

SO  blossoms.  And  out  of  this  world  our  human 
nature  is  drawing  to  itself  millions  of  experi-^ 
ences  ;  while  it  is  above,  m  heaven,  that  it  will 
flower. 


EUT^ANASY.  463 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 


Two  worlds  are  ours  ;  't  is  only  sin 

Forbids  us  to  descry 
The  mystic  heaven  and  earth  within, 

Plain  as  the  sea  and  sky. 

Tiiou  who  hast  given  me  eyes  to  see 

And  love  this  sight  so  fair, 
Give  me  a  heart  to  find  out  Thee, 

And  read  Thee  everywhere.  — Keblb. 


MARHAM. 

A  FINE  evening,  Oliver  ;  clear  and  bright  is  it  ? 
I  am  glad  of  it.  And  now  again  it  is  evening  ; 
indeed,  it  is  night  ;  night  again  !  A  little  while 
ago  I  was  not  ;  a  very  Httle  while  more  and  again 
T  shall  not  be.  In  history  a  lifetime  is  a  mere 
handbreadth,  and  before  God  it  is  as  nothing.  In 
the  past,  any  age  of  it,  where  was  I  ?  Where  was 
I  when  Abraham  departed  out  of  Haran  ?  Where 
was  I  while  young  Plato  listened  to  Socrates,  and 
while  the  book  of  Ecclesiasticus  was  being  med- 
itated ?  and  when  Britain  was  first  heard  of  at 
Rome,  as  an  island  beyond  GaUia  ?  And  in  the 
year  nineteen  hundred  where  shall  I  be  in  this 
world  ?  Where  shall  I  be  when  the  great  men  of 
the  future  shall  talk  together  ;  and  when  they  have 
been  founded  and  have  risen,  — those  better  insti- 


464  EUTHANASY. 

tutions,  that  are  to  be  ?  Ah,  those  stars  !  they 
will  be  shining  on,  after  I  myself  have  been  van- 
ished hence,  long,  long.  Time  lasts  on,  and  on, 
and  on.  In  its  course  the  patriarchs  went  down  ; 
so  did  the  prophet  Samuel,  so  did  Babylon  and 
Nineveh,  so  did  Pericles  and  the  other  famous 
men  of  Athens,  so  did  Julius  Caesar,  so  did 
Rome,  so  did  King  Alfred,  so  did  our  fathers,  so 
have  all  men  done,  so  are  we  doing,  and  so  all 
men  will  do. 

AUBIN. 

We  are  born  and  we  draw  a  breath  ;  some  a 
longer,  some  a  shorter  breath.  We  are  born,  we 
draw  just  a  breath,  and  then  we  die. 

MARHAM. 

The  stars  !  They  shine  on  us,  they  shone  in 
the  past.  They  shone  on  David,  and  made  him 
wonder  ;  and  they  shone  on  a  woman  he  knew 
well,  on  Rizpah,  as  she  sat,  by  night  as  well  as 
day,  all  harvest-time,  watching  by  seven  dead 
bodies.  Those  stars  shone  on  Rizpah,  as  she  sat 
in  sackcloth  on  a  rock,  with  dead  bodies  nigh  her. 
And  now  they  shine  on  the  bare  rock.  But  they 
do  shine  still.  Still  those  stars  shine  as  they  ever 
did.  O,  what  a  strange,  strange  feeling  this  makes 
in  me  ! 

ATJBIN. 

It  is  the  immortal  instinct  of  our  nature  con- 
scious of  a  misgiving.     It  is  the  same  as  when 


EUTHANAST.  465 

we  feel  ourselves  mortal,   knowing  the  while  of 
our  immortality. 

MARHAM. 

With  some  poets,  it  would  seem  to  have  been 
as  though  their  hearts  had  failed  them  at  sight  of 
the  stars. 

AUBIN. 

The  stars  are  not  meant  to  wither  us  with  then 
lays,  but  only  to  make  us  feel  what  a  nothing  our 
duration  is  to  theirs,  —  what  a  nothing  our  bodily 
life  is.  And  thus  it  is  only  spiritual  life  we  can 
think  of  as  being  life  at  all. 

•MARHAM. 

Yes,  Oliver,  it  is  only  the  life  of  the  soul  that 
is  Hfe  at  all. 

AUBIN. 

And  then  how  does  life  feel  evanescent  .''  to 
what  faculty  is  it  so  ?  This  life  is  fleeting,  sadly 
short  to  our  feelings,  —  to  the  feeling  of  the  in- 
finite, to  the  instinct  of  immortality,  that  is  in  us. 
Ah,  then,  there  is,  —  there  is  in  us  an  instinct  of 
an  hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

With  a  few  words  of  faith,  how  the  weak  soul 
gets  refreshed,  as  though  with  a  breath  of  heaven- 
ly air  !  Oliver,  I  think  the  world  does  not  look 
the  same  to  us. that  it  did  to  the  heathen.  Nor 
can  it  now  look  the  same  to  believers  and  to  un- 
believers. For  when  a  man  is  in  Christ,  the  eyes 
30 


466  EUTHANASY. 

of  his  understanding  are  opened  in  another  man- 
ner than  is  known  to  one  without  Christ  in  the 
world.  And,  OHver,  I  must  not  forget  our  con- 
versation this  afternoon  ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  not 
likely  to  do  so  soon. 

AUBIN. 

Uncle,  you  will  excuse  me  ;  but  I  was  a  little 
surprised,  —  no,  not  surprised,  at  what  you  were 
saying  just  now.  But  the  strain  of  what  you  said 
was  new  to  me  from  you,  uncle. 

MARHAM. 

Why,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  just  now  been 
musing  over  a  chart  of  history,  and  talking  with 
myself  not  wisely.  The  stars  !  See  them  ! 
They  are  aloft  in  their  places,  so  calm,  so  still, 
so  pure  !  The  noises  of  this  earth  do  not  reach 
up  one  mile  towards  them.  A  little  way  from  the 
surface  of  it,  this  earth  is  bounded  all  round  with 
silence.  Our  clamors  are  all  shut  in  upon  our- 
selves. 

AUBIN. 

How  we  triumph  and  murmur,  and  laugh  and 
cry,  here  !  And  all  about  objects  that  are  so  lit- 
tle judged  of  from  on  high.  Patience,  quiet,  is 
what  is  preached  to  us  from  the  stars.  Our  cries 
do  not  reach  them,  but  their  speech  does  extend 
to  us.  Their  rays  reach  us.  And  what  is  the 
feeling  they  make  in  us  ?  It  is  calm  and  solemn  ; 
and  always  it  is  the  same.     Though  a  man  does 


EUTHANASY.  467 

not  feel  it,  when  he  is  fretful  or  angry.  But  let 
him  cease  from  earthly  anxieties,  and  then  he  will 
hear  the  language  of  the  stars.  At  times  the  Son 
of  God  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head  in  this 
earth  ;  but  he  did  not  therefore  believe  himself 
the  less  heavenly.  And  let  a  man  feel  the  quiet 
of  the  stars,  their  great  and  sublime  calm  ;  then 
let  him  think  of  their  solemn  calm  as  being  what 
his  own  soul  calms  with,  and  he  will  feel  himself 
so  highly  related,  that  he  will  not  mind  much  what 
house  or  what  circumstances  he  has  to  live  in  here 
for  a  litde  while. 

MAKHAM. 

Your  understanding  of  what  the  stars  say  is 
quite  as  true  as  what  I  was  saying  just  now,  and 
far  better  to  believe.  Yet,  Oliver,  it  is  a  strange, 
solemn  consideration,  that  we  must  die,  and  those 
stars  continue  shining  on  for  ages,  and  for  long, 
long  ages,  perhaps. 

AUBIN. 

And  what  of  that  .''  Many  a  clock  will  outlast 
me  for  years,  and  perhaps  for  centuries  ;  and  it 
will  tell  the  hours,  when  myself  I  shall  be  told  of, 
on  earth,  no  more.  They  will  shine  on  my  grave, 
—  the  stars  will  ;  but  me  myself  they  will  not  out- 
last. Sun,  moon,  and  stars  are  the  marvellous 
clockwork  by  which  time  has  been  indicated  for 
me,  and  will  continue  to  be.  For  the  time  of  my 
death  there  is  a  look  the  sky  will  have,  though  I 


468  EUTHANASY. 

do  not  know  what.  But  perhaps  the  sky  will  be 
blue,  and  with  the  sun  quite  bright  in  it ;  or  it  will 
be  cloudy,  perhaps ;  or,  perhaps,  all  golden  in  the 
west  ;  or  perhaps  starry,  the  whole  round  of  it. 
And  if  I  am  to  die  while  the  stars  are  shining, 
then  there  is  a  way  getting  ready,  which  they  will 
all  be  standing  in  the  while  ;  perhaps  wiih  one 
planet  in  the  east,  and  another  in  the  west,  and  a 
certain  constellation  at  the  zenith.  And  when 
every  star  has  found  his  place,  then  I  shall  ascend 
into  mine. 

MARHAM. 

Going  up  from  behef  in  God  to  the  sight  of 
him  !  I  think,  Oliver,  that  perhaps  God  will  be 
seen  hereafter,  through  those  same  faculties  by 
which  now  we  believe  in  him. 

AUBIN. 

Myself.I  quite  think  so,  uncle.  And  in  the 
same  way  I  think  that  there  are  many  of  the  ex- 
periences of  common  life  which  will  turn  here- 
after to  immortal  uses. 

MARHAM. 

As  you  made  me  understand  so  well  this  after- 
noon. In  this  world  we  live  for  the  next,  and  in 
the  next  we  shall  be  the  better  for  having  lived  in 
this.  Somehow,  in  the  believing  soul,  the  ends  of 
the  world  that  now  is  lengthen  on  into  the  beginnings 
of  the  world  that  is  to  com^.  Christ  is  in  heaven, 
at  the  right  hand  of  God,  and  he  is  in  our  hearts 


EUTHANASY.  469 

the  hope  of  glory.  We  live  mortal  lives  for  im- 
mortal good.  And  this  is  such  a  world,  and  really 
it  is  so  mysterious,  that  there  is  not  one  of  its 
commonest  ways  but  perhaps  is  sublimer  to  walk 
on  than  we  at  all  think. 

AUBIN. 

At  night,  when  we  walk  about  and  see  at  all, 
it  is  by  the  light  of  other  worlds.  Though  we 
do  not  often  think  of  this.  And  it  is  the  same  in 
life.  There  is  many  a  matter  concerning  us  that 
is  little  thought  of,  but  yet  which  is  ours,  as  it 
were,  from  out  of  the  infinite.  Yes,  our  lives 
are  to  be  felt  as  being  very  great  even  in  their 
nothingness. 

MARHAM. 

And  as  you  say,  Oliver,  they  feel  so  mortal  to 
us  because  ourselves  we  are  not  mortal  at  all,  but 
immortal. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and  rightly  thought  of ;  even  our  mortal 
lives  are  as  wonderful  as  immortality.  Is  the  next 
life  a  mystery  ?  So  it  is  ;  but  then  how  myste- 
rious even  now  hfe  is.  Food  is  not  all  that  a  man 
lives  by.  There  is  some  way  by  which  food  has 
to  turn  to  strength  in  him  ;  and  that  way  is  some- 
thing else  than  his  own  will.  I  am  hungry,  I  sit 
down  to  a  meal,  and  I  enjoy  it.  And  the  next 
day,  from  what  I  ate  and  drank  for  my  pleasure, 
there  is  blood  in  my  veins,  and  moisture  on  my 


470  EUTHANASY. 

skin,  and  new  flesh  making  in  all  my  limbs.  And 
this  is  not  my  doing  or  willing.  For  I  do  not  even 
know  how  my  nails  grow  from  under  the  skin  of 
my  fingers.  I  can  well  believe  in  my  being  to  live 
hereafter  ;  how,  indeed,  I  am  to  live  I  do  not 
know  ;  but,  then,  neither  do  I  know  how  I  do 
live  now.  When  I  am  asleep,  my  lungs  keep 
breathing,  my  heart  keeps  beating,  my  stomach 
keeps  digesting,  and  my  whole  body  keeps  making 
anew.  And  in  the  morning,  when  I  look  in  the 
glass,  it  is  as  though  I  see  myself  a  new  creature  ; 
and  really,  for  the  wonder  of  it,  it  is  all  the  same 
as  though  another  body  had  grown  about  me  in 
my  sleep.  This  living  from  day  to  day  is  aston- 
ishing when  it  is  thought  of ;  and  we  are  let  feel 
the  miracle  of  it,  so,  perhaps,  that  our  being  to 
live  again  may  not  be  too  wonderful  for  our 
belief. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  I  think  it  may  be  so,  Oliver.  Myself,  I 
have  thought  that  I  have  believed  the  better  in  the 
life  to  come,  for  feeling  how  mysterious  is  the  life 
that  now  is. 

AUBIN. 

Almost  any  right  feeling  about  this  present  life 
helps  to  rectify  our  feelings  about  the  future  life. 
All  our  best  moods  feel  immortal.  Does  ever  a 
brave  man  lay  down  his  life,  and  feel  it  merely  a 
mortal  one  ?     I  think  not.     For  the  good  soul  in 


EUTHANASY.  471 

him  will  not  let  itself  be  thought  of  so.  A  heart 
has  only  to  be  noble,  and  of  itself  it  will  fill  with 
faith.  No  martyr  ever  went  the  way  of  duty  and 
felt  the  shadow  of  death  upon  it.  The  shadow 
of  death  is  darkest  in  the  valley,  which  men  walk 
in  easily,  and  is  never  felt  at  all  on  a  steep  place, 
like  Calvary.  Truth  is  everlasting,  and  so  is 
every  lover  of  it  ;  and  so  he  feels  himself  almost 
always.  "  To  die  is  nothing  to  being  false.  I 
feel  death  like  nothing  at  all  ;  and  so  it  is  nothing 
in  itself  most  likely."  In  battle,  let  it  be  for  his 
country  that  a  man  stands  up  ;  and  his  brave, 
noble  soul  makes  him  feel  that  there  is  in  him 
a  life,  that  is  no  more  to  be  touched  by  can- 
non-balls than  God  is,  or  than  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  is. 

MARHAM. 

Let  us  love  God,  and  then  of  our  being  to  live 
on  in  him  we  shall  not  doubt.  It  is  our  love  of 
God  that  is  the  soul,  the  strength,  of  our  faith  in  an 
hereafter.  There  are  so  many  things  that  would 
seem  against  us  and  not  for  us,  only  that  we  love 
God  !     So  very  many  painful  things  ! 

AUBIN. 

Darkness  is  of  use  as  well  as  daylight  ;  and  so 
are  the  doubts  that  cloud  our  minds  as  well  as  the 
certainties  that  light  them  up.  So  many  thousand 
things  about  us  are  painful  to  look  at  and  know 
of !     But  what  sadness  they  cause  in  us  is  good 


472  EUTHANASY. 

for  us,  and  is  a  feeling  which  it  is  wholesome  for 
us  to  walk  about  in  for  a  while. 

MARHAM. 

I  think,  Oliver,  that  the  more  one  feels  what 
this  world  is  precisely,  the  surer  one  is  of  its  be- 
ing to  be  explained  in  a  way  not  known  of  yet,  — 
a  way  that  will  justify  want  and  agony  even  to 
goodness  itself.  And  thus  so  many  objects  about 
us,  that  are  sad  to  look  at  now,  will  turn  in  the 
future  to  recollections  wonderful,  and  perhaps 
blessed,  as  you  said  this  afternoon.  Yes,  Oliver, 
to  the  eyes  of  faith  how  all  things  change,  and 
sad  things  look  solemn,  and  dark  things  look 
brightening,  and  bright  things  look  brighter!  And 
then,  too,  there  are  times,  not  those  of  our  most 
virtuous  moods  certainly,  when  our  best  thoughts 
feel  empty,  and  when  events  move  us  only  to 
despair. 

AUBIN. 

Just  as  a  house  is  a  home  only  to  what  do- 
mestic feeling  is  in  a  man,  so  very  largely  this 
world  is  God's  world  only  to  what  godly  feelings 
are  in  us.  And  it  is  only  to  my  Christian  feeling 
that  the  world  feels 

MARHAM. 

What  inspires  you  with  courage,  and  hope,  and 
trust  ? 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.     There  have  been  times  when  to 


EUTHANASY.  473 

me  nature  has  been  meaningless  ;  and  there  have 
been  men  to  whom  it  has  been  disheartening. 
Apd  well  I  remember  the  time  at  which  nature 
began  in  my  eyes  to  grow  good  with  the  good- 
ness of  God.  It  was  like  as  when  a  white  cloud 
grows  golden  with  the  rising  sun.  And  now  to 
my  trustful,  Christian  heart,  nature  is  so  that 
whatever  is  in  harmony  with  it  I  can  be  well  con- 
tented to  become,  even  though  it  might  possibly 
prove  to  be  nothing.  In  many  a  beautiful  scene, 
on  a  summer's  day,  it  is  as  though  it  were  said  to 
me,  "  Feel  now  how  blessed  are  the  Divine 
hands,  into  which  it  will  be  thine  sometime  to 
commend  thy  spirit."  And  now,  to-night,  is  not 
It  as  though  God  had  darkened  the  world  for  me 
to  feel  him  the  better  in  it  ?  And  what  are  those 
stars  but  the  thousand  eyes  of  God's  love  watch- 
ing me  ?  And  the  soft  west  wind, — is  it  not 
what  my  soul  might  well  go  forth  upon  calmly  and 
hopefully  ? 

MARHAM. 

The  life  of  all  things  else  is  our  life. 

AUBIN. 

And  what  the  sun  rises  in  and  sets  in,  our  souls 
may  well  be  trusted  to  last  on  in.  The  morrow 
of  the  world  is  a  purpose  in  the  mind  of  God, 
and  so  is  the  great  to-morrow  of  my  soul.  And 
I  can  be  well  contented  to  have  my  life  subside 
oil  the  bosom  of  him  in  whom  the  day  died  away 


-IW  EUTHANASY. 

this  evening  so  beautifully,  and  in  whom  it  will 
begin  again  in  the  morning  so  grandly. 

MARHAM. 

Almost  all  things  encourage  the  faith  of  a 
thoughtful  and  believing  mind.  It  is  easy  to  be- 
lieve that  the  souls  of  the  righteous  will  shine  on 
through  death,  since  they  have,  for  the  life  of  their 
lives,  that  God  in  whom  sun  and  moon  and  stars 
last  on  through  change,  and  eclipse,  and  ages. 

AUBIN. 

My  soul  will  live  on  in  God,  through  death, 
like  a  thought  that  lasts  on  in  the  mind  through 
sleep,  and  forgetfulness,  and  threescore  years 
and  ten  perhaps. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  I  live  in  God,  and  shall  eternally.  It  is 
his  hand  upholds  me  now  ;  and  death  will  be  but 
an  upliftmg  of  me  into  his  bosom. 


EUTHANASY.  471? 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

And  may  it  not  be  hoped,  thai,  placed  by  age 

In  like  removal,  tranquil  though  severe, 

We  are  not  so  removed  for  utter  loss, 

But  for  some  favor,  suited  to  our  need  ? 

What  more  than  that  the  severing  should  confer 

Fresh  power  to  commune  with  the  invisible  world, 

And  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  tendency 

Uttering,  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 

A  clear,  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 

To  the  vast  multitude,  whose  doom  it  Is 

To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight, 

Or  fret  and  labor  on  the  plain  below  ? 

WORDSWOKTH. 

MARHAM. 

Very  much  I  like  it.  But  I  am  another  man 
than  I  was  when  I  was  there  thirty  years  ago. 
And  the  people  there  are  almost  all  other  than 
I  used  to  know.  The  land  slopes  as  it  used  to 
do,  upwards  to  the  brow  of  a  hill,  and  down  to- 
wards a  brook.  The  brook  runs  on,  stony  at  the 
bottom  in  one  place,  and  gravelly  in  another  ; 
and  the  grass  alongside  it  is  long  and  green, 
and  with  flowers  in  it.  Prettily  grow  the  fox- 
glove and  the  water-lily.  And  all  day  long,  while 
the  daisies  are  looking  up  at  the  sun,  the  brook 
flows  on,  and  here  and  there  it  gurgles  ;  and  so  it 
does  in  the  dark,  all  the  night  through,  and  while 


470  EUTHANASY. 

the  daisies  are  shut.  The  water  runs  there,  ana 
the  grass  grows  there,  and  the  flowers  blossom 
there,  and  smell  there  ;  and  the  sun  shines  there, 
and  midnight  is  dark  there,  and  there  all  things 
are  as  they  used  to  be.  Only  the  men  that  were 
there  once  are  not  there  now. 

AUBIN. 

And  how  did  you  feel  ?  You  had  old  thoughts 
come  back  to  you,  and  old  feelings.  How  did 
life  feel  to  you  there  ? 

'   MARHAM. 

Oliver,  it  felt  to  me  there  what  it  does  to  mt 
too  often,  perhaps.  What  is  it  to  live  ?  It  is 
to  grow  older.  It  is  to  have  more  pain,  or  else 
more  fear  of  pain.  It  is  to  have  some  friends 
grow  cold,  and  others  die.  It  is  to  learn  more 
and  more  reasons,  every  year,  for  being  willing 
to  die. 

ATJBIN. 

So  it  IS  ;  and  not  lamentably  so  either.  For 
to  live  thoughtfully  is  to  advance  in  life,  and  feel 
ourselves  being  laid  hold  of  by  the  powers  of 
the  world  to  come. 

MARHAM. 

A  grand  phrase  is  that  of  St.  Paul's. 

AUBIN. 

So  it  is.  And,  uncle,  did  not  you  feel  more 
faith,  as  well  as  more  resignation,  when  you  found 
yourself  an  old  man,  where  you  used  to  live  as 
a  youth  ? 


EUTHANASY.  477 

MARHAM. 

I  hope,  I  trust,  I  did  feel  myself  better  per- 
suaded of  an  hereafter  than  I  was  when  I  was  a 
young  man.  But  I  cannot  be  sure  how  far  the 
peace  I  felt  there  was  that  of  the  spirit,  and  not 
merely  that  of  the  fineness  of  the  day. 

ATJBIN. 

Worthy  of  trust  though  ;  however  it  may  have 
been  made  in  you,  I  think. 

MARHAM. 

Perhaps  so.  For  I  think  there  is  a  religious- 
ness in  the  calm  of  a  beautiful  day,  and  that  it 
is  what  an  irreligious  man  has  no  feeling  of. 

AUBIN. 

A  fine  day  is  universal  harmony.  There  is 
nothing  out  of  place  with  the  sunshine  on  it, 
and  hardly  any  thing  even  of  man's  making  but 
seems  to  stand  right.  And  in  the  soft,  warm, 
still  air,  all  sounds  are  musical  ;  the  screams  and 
calls  of  children,  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  the 
singing  of  the  lark,  the  chattering  of  the  jay,  the 
ring  of  the  anvil  as  the  smith  works  at  it,  the 
lowing  of  the  cows  in  the  meadow,  and  the  caw- 
ing of  the  rooks  high  up  in  the  air,  the  song  of 
the  wren  in  the  hedge,  the  bark  of  the  dog  by 
his  kennel,  and  the  ratde  on  the  distant  railway. 
I  have  been  in  what  I  thought  was  an  altogether 
ugly  neighbourhood.  But  there  came  a  fine  day  ; 
and  it   was  just  as   though   it  were  said   to  me, 


478  EUTHANASY. 

''  See  now  how  easily  beautiful  all  things  are." 
And  so  when  we  feel  ourselves  immortal,  then 
all  things  round  us  are  right,  stormy  weather  as 
well  as  spring-time,  people  that  cannot  under- 
stand us  as  well  as  those  that  do,  hard  things 
as  well  as  pleasant  things,  sweet  women  and 
resolute  men,  children  in  their  innocence,  and 
bad  men  in  their  badness,  as  far  at  least  as  their 
badness  is  our  trial. 

MARHAM. 

How  is  it,  Oliver,  that  sometimes  in  misfor- 
tune an  old  man  will  sorrow  more  than  he  did 
in  his  youth,  and  yet  his  faith  be  as  strong  as  it 
ever  was  } 

AUBIN. 

I  think,  because,  though  sorrows  do  not  often 
last  on  in  us  all  through  life,  yet  they  may  re- 
vive in  us  for  a  time.  Indeed,  the  same  misfor- 
tune is  not  the  same  trouble  always.  For  when 
a  young  man  mourns,  it  is  for  his  one  grief. 
But  when  an  old  man  is  frightened,  it  is  with  a 
fearfulness  which  has  grown  in  him  from  the 
losses  and  bereavements  and  pains  of  a  whole 
lifetime.  When  an  old  man  weeps  for  any  thing, 
a  hundred  old  sorrows  weep  from  his  eyes,  many 
an  old  friend  hes  dead  before  him,  and  many  a 
piece  of  ill  news  sounds  in  his  ears  afresh.  But 
still  in  it  all,  if  he  is  a  Christian,  he  feels  some- 
thing of  the  peace  of  God  ;  and,  O,  so  sweetly 


EUTHANASY. 


479 


It  feels  !  And  it  is  to  him  as  though  dead  friends 
lay,  one  in  one  chamber,  and  another  in  another  ; 
and  as  though  one  misfortune  threatened  him,  and 
another  mourned  to  him,  only  to  make  him  feel 
the  quiet  of  heaven,  how  great  and  sweet  it  is. 

.  MARHAM. 

How  much  Christianity  has  done  for  old  age  ! 
I  think  that,  of  thirty  epithets  the  Romans  used 
to  describe  old  age  with,  there  were  only  two  or 
three  but  what  were  sad  or  contemptuous.  But 
indeed  it  is  hard  even  for  a  Christian  not  to  feel 
rather  sadly  over  old  age,  when  it  becomes  de- 
cay of  the  faculties.  An  old  man  may  remem- 
ber things  of  seventy  years  ago  :  yet  still  it  is 
mortifying  for  him,  when  he  finds  himself  begin- 
ning to  forget  little  things  of  yesterday.  Now,' 
Oliver,  what  would  you  say  to  such  a  person  .'' 

AUBIN. 

You  say,  your  memory  fails  you  for  common 
things.  But  now  this  is  not  a  thing  for  you  to 
grieve  about.  For  why  should  you  be  remem- 
bering much  more  of  the  little  things  of  this  little 
life,  when  you  are  so  nigh  the  great  things  of  a 
life  that  will  be  infinite  ?  News,  things  that  hap- 
pen daily, — these  we  are  to  know  of,  for  the 
sake  of  the  wisdom  they  help  to  make  in  us. 
But  at  fourscore  years,  a  man  is  little  the  bet- 
ter for  recollecting  well  the  countless  events  of 
a  day  ;  because  whatever  wisdom  they  can  teach 


480  euthAxnasy. 

or  inure  him  to,  he  must  have  learned  already 
And  so  it  is  not  so  much  memory  that  is  failing 
with  you,   as   the    earthly   purpose   of  it   that  is 
signifying  itself  fulfilled. 

^  MARHAM. 

Thank  you,  Oliver.  What  you  have  said  is 
ingenious,  and  I  trust  that  it  is  true,  for  it  is  very 
comforting. 

AUBIN. 

So  many  ways,  tenderly  and  solemnly,  does 
old  age,  as  I  think,  suggest  there  being  cer- 
tainly a  blessed  world  to  come.  When  old,  a 
man  loves  God  more  than  when  young ;  and 
loves  him  in  a  more  childlike  way,  —  loves  him 
with  more  wonder,  from  greater  depths,  and  up 
greater  heights  of  thought.  And  this  love  of  him- 
self will  God  draw  back  from  ?  Will  he  draw 
himself  up  into  his  immortality,  and  leave  his 
human  creature  yearning  after  him  in  vain  ?  No  ; 
he  never  will.  This  love,  of  his  own  making 
in  the  soul,  will  he  withdraw  from  ^  O,  no  ! 
And  the  many  things  that  soften  an  old  man's 
heart,  — what  are  they,  but  God's  way  of  making 
it  love  himself  the  better !  And  in  the  failure 
of  memory  for  the  little  things  of  to-day  and 
yesterday,  and  in  the  weakening  of  such  facul- 
ties as  are  more  peculiarly  earthly  in  their  use, 
is  not  it  as  though  God  were  loosening  the 
soul  for  its  freer  coming  to  himself  ?     A   flower 


EUTHANASY.  481 

dropping  its  leaves  and  turning  to  seed  is  very 
certainly  predictive  of  a  summer  to  come  ;  and 
just  as  certainly  do  very  many  of  the  circum- 
stances of  an  old  man  witness  to  what  is  to  be 
his  renewal  hereafter. 

MARHAM. 

It  is  as  having  a  Redeemer,  that  the  old  man 
now  is  so  different  from  what  he  was  among  the 
heathen.  In  Latin  writings,  and,  I  think  very 
likley,  in  Greek  authors  also,  there  is  hardly  a 
thing  old  age  is  likened  to,  but  is  what  is  pain- 
ful to  think  of.  But,  indeed,  even  in  our  modern, 
bur  Christian  literature,  I  know  few  pleasant  em- 
blems of  the  end  of  life.  It  is  as  though  expe- 
rience and  nature  yielded  none.  And  yet  an 
old  man  needs  the  consolation  of  seeing  his  face 
made  glorious  in  glorious  mirrors. 

AUBIN. 

A  good  old  age  is  a  beautiful  sight,  and  there 
is  nothing  earthly  that  is  as  noble,  —  in  my  eyes, 
at  least.  And  »o  I  have  often  thought.  A  ship 
is  a  fine  object,  when  it  comes  up  into  a  port, 
with  all  its  sails  set,  and  quite  safely,  from  a  long 
voyage.  Many  a  thousand  miles  it  has  come, 
with  the  sun  for  guidance,  and  the  sea  for  its 
path,  and  the  winds  for  its  speed.  What  might 
have  been  its  grave,  a  thousand  fathoms  deep, 
has  yielded  it  a  ready  way  ;  and  winds  that  might 
have  been  its  wreck,  have  been  its  service.  It 
31 


482  EUTHANASY. 

has  come  from  another  meridian  than  ours  ;  it  has 
come  through  day  and  night ;  it  has  come  by 
reefs  and  banks,  that  have  been  avoided,  and  past 
rocks,  that  have  been  watched  for.  Not  a  plank 
has  started,  nor  one  timber  in  it  proved  rotten. 
And  now  it  comes  Hke  an  answer  to  the  prayers 
of  many  hearts, — a  delight  to  the  owner,  a  joy 
to  many  a  sailor's  family,  and  a  pleasure  to  all 
ashore,  that  see  it.  It  has  been  steered  over 
the  ocean,  and  been  piloted  through  dangers, 
and  now  it  is  safe.  But  more  interesting  still 
than  this  is  a  good  life,  as  it  approaches  its  three- 
score years  and  ten.  It  began  in  the  century  be- 
fore the  present ;  it  has  lasted  on  through  storms 
and  sunshine,  and  it  has  been  guarded  against 
many  a  rock,  on  which  shipwreck  of  a  good  con- 
science might  have  been  made.  On  the  course 
it  has  taken,  there  has  been  the  influence  of 
Providence  ;  and  it  has  been  guided  by  Christ, 
that  day-star  from  on  high.  Yes,  old  age  is 
even  a  nobler  sight  than  a  ship  completing  a  long, 
long  voyage.  On  a  summer's  evening,  the  set- 
ting sun  is  grand  to  look  at.  In  his  morning 
beams,  the  birds  awoke  and  sang,  men  rose  for 
their  work,  and  the  world  grew  light.  In  his  mid- 
day heat,  wheat-fields  grew  yellower,  and  fruits 
were  ripened,  and  a  thousand  natural  purposes, 
were  answered,  which  we  mortals  do  not  know 
of.      And  in  his  light,  at  setting,  all  things  seem 


EUTHANASY.  483 

to  grow  harmonious  and  solemn.  But  what  is  all 
this  to  the  sight  of  a  good  life,  in  those  years  that 
go  down  into  the  grave  ?  In  the  early  days  of  it, 
old  events  had  their  happening  ;  with  the  light  of 
it,  many  a  house  has  been  brightened  ;  and  under 
the  good  influence  of  it,  souls  have  grown  better, 
some  of  whom  are  now  on  high.  And  then  the 
closing  period  of  such  a  life,  —  how  almost  awful 
is  the  beauty  of  it  !  From  his  setting,  the  sun 
will  rise  again  to-morrow  ;  and  he  will  shine  on 
men  and  their  work,  and  on  children's  children 
and  their  labors.  But  once  finished,  even  a 
good  life  has  no  renewal  in  this  world.  It  will 
begin  again,  but  it  will  be  in  a  new  earth,  and 
under  new  heavens.  Yes,  uncle,  nobler  than 
a  ship  safely  ending  a  long  voyage,  and  sublimer 
than  the  setting  sun,  is  the  old  age  of  a  just,  and 
kind,  and  useful  life. 


484  EUTHANASY. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

With  stammering  lips  and  insufficient  sound, 
I  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 
Tliat  music  of  my  nature,  day  and  night, 
With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling  interwoven, 
And  inly  answering  all  the  senses'  round, 
With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and  height, 
Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite. 
Prom  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual  ground. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

AUBIN. 

No  doubt,  there  is  in  men  a  love  of  life,  and  so 
life  is  eternal  with  them,  I  beheve.  For  God  is 
too  good  ever  to  have  made  us  love  life,  had  he 
intended  to  have  deprived  us  of  it,  ever.  So 
I  think.  I  have  been  told  that  it  is  because 
of  my  great  love  of  life,  that  I  am  so  greatly 
persuaded  of  the  signs  which  betoken  that  there 
is  a  life  hereafter,  to  be  entered  upon  from  life 
here.  But  indeed  I  am  not  self-deceived,  in  this 
way.  For  I  love  life  but  little,  as  mere  living  ; 
and  indeed  not  at  all,  I  think.  Only  let  me  know 
that  the  end  of  all  men  is  everlasting  death,  and 
any  time  I  would  go  to  my  grave  like  going  to 
bed  for  ever.  I  do  not  think  I  have  ever  known 
a  moment  I  would  not  willingly  have  had  be 
my  last,   might  it  have  been  so  for  ever.       All 


EUTHANASY.  485 

through  my  Hfe  there  has  been  no  book  so  inter- 
esting to  me,  but  I  could  have  laid  it  down  at  any 
page  ;  no  conversation  so  sweet,  but  I  could  have 
stopped  in  it  at  once  ;  no  pleasure  so  great,  but  I 
could  have  turned  from  it  any  instant,  and  been 
quite  willing  to  die,  if  it  might  have  been  for  ever. 
And  1  say  now,  that  if  the  coffin-hd  were  to  hide 
me  from  the  universe  for  ever,  1  could  ask  to 
have  it  made  for  me  to-morrow.  And  at  once  I 
would  have  it  made  ;  for  I  should  like  the  sight 
of  it,  if  under  it  thought  was  to  torture  me  no 
more,  and  despair  was  to  cease  for  ever. 

MARHAM. 

But  now,  through  our  Saviour,  Jesus  Christ,  it 
is  not  despair  which  comes  of  loving  life,  but  only 
more  earnestness  of  faith.  But  perhaps,  Oliver, 
it  would  be  better  if  I  could  love  this  life  less,  and 
life  immortal  more.  I  love  this  life  loo  much,  I 
am  afraid. 

AUBIN. 

I  do  not  think  you  do,  uncle  ;  and  I  do  not 
think  any  man  can,  in  a  wise  way.  My  little  love 
of  life  is  neither  excellence  nor  merit  in  me. 
Chiefly  it  results  from  what  my  life  has  been  :  for 
never  have  my  circumstances  been  what  I  have 
felt  at  home  in.  However,  as  a  little  child,  I  was 
singularly  happy.  And  yet,  at  seven  or  eight 
years  of  age,  I  used  to  think  of  death  often,  es- 
pecially in  the  night.     I  used  to  think  of  it   only 


486  EUTHANASY. 

as  ending  life  ;  still  I  looked  towards  it  quietly 
and  fondly  almost.  "  Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is 
vanity."  This  was  in  my  mind,  at  twelve  years 
old,  quite  as  mournfully  as  it  is  written  in  the  book 
of  Ecclesiastes,  I  was  very  fond  of  play  ;  un- 
usually so  ;  and  yet  in  the  midst  of  a  game,  some- 
times, something  would  ask  me,  as  though  in 
scorn  and  pity,  "  What  worth  in  this  is  there  ?  " 
I  do  not  now  yearn  for  death  ;  but  it  is  not  be- 
cause I  am  in  love  with  this  life,  but  because  I 
know  now  that  death  is  not  death,  —  is  not  so 
much  an  ending  of  life  as  a  beginning  of  it  again. 

MARHAM. 

But,  Oliver,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  you 
do  not  like  living. 

AUBIN. 

O,  no  !  But  as  far  as  I  do  love  life,  it  is  more 
as  thought  than  as  pleasure.  Indeed,  for  any  en- 
joyment of  it,  I  have  never  loved  life.  And  so, 
whatever  feeling  I  have  of  life  as  being  to  be  im- 
mortal, I  can  trust  to  confidently  ;  at  least,  I  can 
trust  to  it  more  reasonably  than  if  I  hoped  to  live 
again,  only  out  of  a  mere  love  of  enjoying  myself. 
"It  is  for  immortality  thou  art  made"  ;  this  is  in 
me  no  voice  of  lust,  nor  of  pride,  no  cry  of  my 
own  making,  but  a  voice  so  awful,  at  times,  that, 
now  and  then,  almost  I  could  rather  not  know  of  it. 

MARHABI. 

Life,  life  is  so  dear  !     It  is  to  me,  at  least,  and 


EUTHANASY.  487 

too  much  so,  at  times,  I  am  afraid.     Oliver,  I 
wish  I  could  feel  more  as  you  do  about  it. 

AUBIN.    .    ' 

There  is  no  occasion  for  your  wishing  that,  my 
dear  uncle.  It  is  no  virtue  that  loves  life  not  at 
all.  Myself  1  should  have  loved  it  better,  if  I 
had  had  business  to  mind,  and  objects  for  my  af- 
fections to  lay  hold  of.  I  am  none  the  worthier 
of  the  life  to  come,  for  never  having  had  a  fast 
hold  of  the  life  that  now  is  ;  but  quite  otherwise. 
The  oak  that  reaches  nighest  heaven  with  its  top 
is  deepest  in  the  earth  with  its  root. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is  ;  and  firmest  in  it. 

AUBIN. 

I  know,  at  least  I  think  1  do,  that  I  should  have 
been  now  more  fit  for  heaven  than  I  am,  if  for- 
merly I  had  had  more  friends  to  love,  more  pleas- 
ures to  be  gay  and  grateful  in,  and  more  busi- 
ness to  be  active  in.  The  more  right  things  a 
man  loves,  the  loveher  grows  his  soul.  Neigh- 
bours, books,  friends,  pictures,  the  country,  music, 
work,  —  whatever  things  are  good,  let  a  man  love, 
and  he  will  himself  be  the  better,  and  so  be  the 
fitter  for  what  is  best.  Most  persons  are  per- 
suaded that  pains  assure  us  of  there  being  an  here- 
after ;  but  that  pleasures  do  the  same  is  what  very 
few  feel.  Yet  it  is  to  be  felt,  O,  so  sweetly  and 
strangely  !    Out  of  his  cup  of  pleasure,  let  a  man 


488  EUTHANASY. 

drink  only  virtuous  delight,  and  drink  of  it  blessing 
God  the  while  ;  and  it  will  taste  like  water  of  life  ; 
and  easily  he  will  believe  in  there  being  a  river  of 
it-  somewhere,  for  him  to  find. 

MARHAM. 

That  is  a  right  thought,  Oliver.  At  least,  I  like 
it.  I  like  the  spiritualism  of  your  philosophy, 
because  it  does  not  often  break  away  from  real- 
ities. Whatever  it  is  you  are  seeing  with  the 
eyes  of  your  imagination,  it  is  out  of  some  win- 
dow in  common  life  that  you  look  the  while. 
You  are  like  —  like  —  you  are  like  — 

AUBIN. 

Some  astronomer,  that  plays  with  his  child  one 
moment,  and  the  next  looks  millions  of  miles 
away,  to  remark  on  which  side  of  Jupiter  some 
one  moon  is  shining.  Or  I  am  like  one  that 
should  gather  common  apples  into  a  golden  basket. 
But  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  of  myself.  I  am 
one  that  stands  by  the  tree  of  knowledge,  longing 
for  what  fruit  is  on  the  topmost  boughs.  Hours 
and  hours,  and  for  more  hours,  perhaps,  than  I 
ought,  T  watch  those  high  branches  ;  and  now  and 
then,  as  I  know,  an  apple  falls,  which  I  fancy 
sometimes  that  I  find. 

MARHAM. 

Do  thoughts,  then,  grow  for  you,  like  fruit,  Oli- 
ver } 


EUTHANASY.  489 

AUBIN. 

Ah,  no,  no,  uncle  !  Not  so  easily.  And  yet 
to  me  it  does  not  feel  as  though  my  own  best 
thoughts  were  of  my  own  devising,  but  rather  as 
though  they  were  mine  simply  because  my  mind 
somehow  had  been  open  for  them  to  come  into. 
The  best  things  I  have  written  do  not  to  me  read 
like  my  own,  nor  like  any  body's  else  ;  but  like 
recollections  of  some  bright  dream,  or  of  words 
heard  in  another  world.  But  my  bad  thoughts  are 
my  own  ;  they  feel  altogether  my  own.  And  well 
they  may.  For  when  I  am  wicked  I  am  so  for 
myself,  and  while  thinking  of  myself,  and  while  I 
am  intent  on  some  interest  of  my  own,  some  pas- 
sion of  mine,  some  wish  of  mine.  After  some  of 
my  best  actions,  I  have  felt  as  though  1  had  been 
possessed  while  doing  them,  divinely  possessed. 
But  when  I  have  been  vicious,  I  have  been  selfish 
most  for  myself,  and  even  most  myself,  I  might 
say,  perhaps.  Goodness  is  godliness,  God  in  us. 
And  wickedness  is  selfishness,  a  man's  self  only. 
In  my  best  seasons  I  do  not  know  that  I  am  Oli- 
ver Aubin  ;  I  am  not  any  body  ;  I  am  thought,  I 
am  feeling.  But  if  there  is  any  thing  wrong  in 
me,  it  is  I,  Oliver  Aubin,  that  think  it ;  I,  Oliver 
Aubin. 

MARHAM. 

Just  now  you  were  going  to  say  something 
about  some  travellers'  book  soni'i^where. 


490  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

At  an  inn  among  the  Alps,  in  Switzerland, 
some  Englishman,  ill  of  consumption,  wrote  in 
the  travellers'  book  what  his  feelings  of  wonder 
were  at  the  sight  of  the  glaciers  ;  how  he  is  one 
who  is  going  across  the  Alps  to  die,  and  yet 

Here  steals  a  moment  from  Italian  sky, 
And  stops  and  wonders  on  his  way  to  die. 

Dying  man  as  he  was,  he  could  not  feel  himself 
only  mortal,  but  a  man  of  wonder,  and  awe,  and 
reverence,  —  feelings  that  are  akin  to  immortality. 

MARHAM. 

I  have  read  the  passages  I  asked  you  to  trans- 
cribe for  me,  from  those  records  of 

AUBIN. 

How  my  sun  went  black  in  the  sky  at  mid-day, 
and  hung  there  an  orb  of  darkness. 

MARHAM. 

You  have  arranged  the  extracts  as  I  suggested. 
And  I  have  found  a  motto  for  them,  as  you  will 
see  ;  for  I  have  prefixed  it. 


EUTHANAST.  491 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

Haih  he  not  always  treasures,  always  friends, 

The  good  great  man  ?    Three  treasures,  —  Love,  and  Light, 

And  calm  Thoughts,  regular  as  infants'  breath ;  — 

And  three  firm  friends,  more  sure  than  day  and  night,  — 

Himself,  his  Maker,  and  the  angel  Death. 

Coleridge. 

Seven  conclusions  from  a  week  of  sad  eve- 
nings :  — 

Sunday.  —  About  the  hardships  of  h'fe  a  man 
cannot  murmur,  and  it  not  be  against  God. 

Monday.  —  This  breath  of  mine  is  God's  good 
giving  ;  and  it  is  health  and  life  in  me,  as  I  draw 
it :  but  in  breathing  it  out  again,  so  often  I  make 
it  into  sighs  against  the  Giver  of  it  !  I  misuse 
God's  air  so  !     Such  a  traitor  I  am  this  way  ! 

Tuesday.  —  Misery,  misery,  O  my  misery  ! 
So  slowly  time  goes  with  it  !  To-day  has  been 
with  me  like  years,  like  a  thousand  years  :  and 
to-morrow  will  pass  the  same  way  as  to-day  ;  and 
so  will  the  day  after.  And  it  is  well,  is  it  not  ? 
For  these  long  days  are  making  my  life  the  longer, 
almost  ages  the  longer.  But  so  wretched  they 
are  !  Yet  they  are  not  too  wretched  to  pray  in  ! 
O  the  feelings  I  have  had  the  last  few  days  I 
This  weary,  weary  season  !     Nay  ;  but  it  is  this 


493  f:UTHANASY. 

precious,  precious  time  !  Because  of  long  days 
it  is  not  for  a  mortal  to  complain,  and  of  sorrow- 
ful ones  a  Christian  will  not. 

Wednesday,  —  These  long,  long  days  !  Ah, 
yes  !  There  may  well  be  to  me  some  feeling  of 
length  in  them  ;  for  out  of  their  hours,  myself,  I 
am  growing  to  be  immortal,  as  I  trust. 

Thursday.  —  This  trouble  of  mine  is  God's 
loving  chastisement.  Do  I  believe  this  ?  Yes, 
I  do.  Then  why  am  I  so  wretched  ?  O,  there 
is  many  a  man,  an  angel  now,  that  would  take 
flesh  again  eagerly,  for  the  sake  of  carrying  this 
cross  of  mine.  But  what  troubles  me  most  is, 
not  the  weight  of  the  cross,  but  what  men  may 
think  of  me  for  having  it  to  carry.  But  they  are 
not  all  my  witnesses,  nor  indeed  the  chief  of 
them  :  for  there  are  others  than  they  about  me,  a 
great  cloud  of  them,  though  known  of  only  in 
spirit.  Courage,  then  !  I  have  angels  looking 
on  ;  and  I  have  my  Father  watching  me  :  and  it 
is  mine  to  walk  in  life  abreast  with  martyrs,  for 
some  few  steps,  at  least. 

Friday. — O,  how  dreary,  and  friendless,  and 
helpless,  and  useless  my  life  is  !  It  is  as  though 
T  were  out  in  a  wilderness  ;  so  lonely,  and  so  sad 
I  am  !  Ahd  indeed  it  is  so  ;  and  there  comes  the 
tempter  to  me.  And  one  time  he  will  have  me 
weep,  because  I  have  not  a  friend  to  understand 
me.     But  I  keep  my  tears  for  my   sins.     And 


EUTHANASY.  493 

another  time  he  tries  to  embitter  me,  and  make 
me  say  that  vanity  of  vanities,  life  is  vanity.  But 
1  answer  him,  that  goodness  is  not  vanity,  nor  is 
dying  for  goodness  a  vanity  ;  and  that  1  long  for 
the  one,  and  am  ready  for  the  other.  Nay,  thou 
tempter  !  It  is  by  tliy  coming  to  me  that  I  know 
myself.  Yes,  like  Jesus,  I  too  am  a  soul,  I  am 
a  spirit  for  ever.  But  I  have  thee  to  resist.  Devil. 
Thou  art  one  thing'  to  one  man,  and  another  to 
another  ;  and  to  wicked  and  unbelieving  souls, 
hereafter,  thou  wilt  be  strange  things,  unknown  of 
yet.  But  to  me,  just  this  day,  thou  art  poverty. 
But  I  will  not  be  daunted  by  thee  so.  I  can 
overcome  thee,  and  I  will.  For  I  know  of  a 
way,  through  having  nothing  to  possess  all  things. 
Courage,  my  soul  !  Be  patient  and  full  of  fahh. 
Resist  the  adversary  as  poverty,  and  thou  wilt 
overcome  him  for  this  life  and  for  ever.  For  in 
a  godly  way,  overcoming  him  in  one  shape,  thou 
art  conquering  him  in  every  other  form,  as  wine, 
as  a  harlot,  as  pride,  as  a  mob,  as  a  tyrant,  and  as 
despair. 

Saturday.  —  I  am  overcoming  the  world  itself, 
oy  outgrowing  the  love  of  it.  As  a  poor  man,  if 
I  keep  free  in  spirit,  and  cheerful,  then  I  am  get- 
ting gold,  and  silver,  and  dignities,  and  thrones 
beneath  my  feet ;  and  I  am  growing  up  to  the 
level  of  principalities  and  powers  in  heaven. 


494  EUTHANAST. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Ah,  yes!  the  hour  is  come 
When  thou  must  hasten  home, 

Pure  soul !  to  Him  who  calls. 
The  God  who  gave  thee  breath 
Walks  by  the  side  of  Death, 

And  naught  that  step  appalls. 

Health  has  forsaken  thee ; 
Hope  says  thou  soon  shalt  be 

Where  happier  spirits  dwell, 
There  where  one  loving  word 
Alone  is  never  heard,  — 

That  loving  word,  farewell. 

W.  S.  Landor. 

AUBIN. 

Water,  uncle  !  a  glass  of  water  !    Thank  you, 

MARRAM. 

Are  you  very  much  worse,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

Only  for  a  minute  or  two  ;  not  for  more,  per- 
haps. O  pain,  pain,  pain  !  O  the  people  I 
think  of  now  !  What  was  the  sacrament  of 
blood  }  Was  it  not  when  persons  mingled  their 
blood  in  one  cup,  and  then  drank  of  it,  all  of 
them  ?  Always,  till  this  moment,  it  has  seemed 
to  me  a  fantastical  proceeding  ;  but  it  does  not 
now  ;  for  I  think  I  feel  now  what  the  first  user? 
of  it  meant,  though  I  do  not  know.     O,  pain  is  ? 


EUTHANASY.  495 

Strange  brotherhood  among  men  !  No,  uncle, 
no  !  you  cannot  do  any  thing  for  mc.  But  do  not 
leave  me.  O,  it  is  as  though  flash  after  flash  of 
the  lightning  of  God  were  going  through  me  ! 
Dreadful,  dreadful,  very  dreadful  !  And  it  is 
awful,  and  it  is  sublime  !  For  the  agonies,  as 
Uiey  go,  say,  "  Not  in  vain  have  we  been  through 
you  ;  not  in  vain."  And  the  spirit  within  cannot 
but  believe.  It  is  as  though  there  were  a  great 
n^.ystery  growing  up  between  me  and  God,  for 
explanation  some  time.  Just  now,  my  feeling  of 
endurance  is  very  strange  ;  it  is  so  strange  that  I 
would  not  but  know  it,  very  dreadful  as  the  pain 
is.  It  is  as  though  I  am  being  afilicted  because 
God  cannot  help  it.  You  would  think  this  must 
be  wretched  despair  ;  but  it  is  not.  God  cannot 
spare  me.  Do  thy  will,  do  thy  divine  will,  do 
thy  will  upon  me,  O  God  !  God  pity  me  !  Yes, 
I  know  the  Lord  does  pity  me.  In  the  mind  of 
God  there  is  pity  for  me.  Yes,  God  wishes  me 
to  bear,  is  anxious  for  it,  —  he,  the  Father  of 
spirits.  O,  then  I  will !  and  I  am  strong  to  do  it 
triumphantly. 

MARK AM. 

Think  of  what  Jesus  Christ  must  have  suffered 
on  the  cross. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  dear  uncle,  it  is  in  the  spirit  of  that  cruci- 
fixion that  I  feel  as  I  do.     T  know  myself  to  be  in 


496  EUTHANASY. 

no  torture-house,  but  in  the  latter  agonies  of  an 
immortal  birth.  And  this  is  the  faith  of  my  soul, 
through  Him,  the  buried  and  the  risen,  the  cruci- 
fied and  the  ascended.  Thy  spirit,  thy  spirit,  O 
Christ  !  is  my  strength,  my  hope,  my  oneness 
with  God.  For  in  thy  mind  there  was  wrestled 
out  the  victory  of  those  thoughts  that  come  to  me 
so  gloriously.  Glory  to  thee,  who  art  the  light 
of  my  light,  and  the  victoriousness  of  my  victory 
in  this  world  ! 

MARHAM. 

Glory,  glory  to  him  ! 

AUBIN. 

It  is  an  odd  thing  for  me  to  be  thinking  just 
now,  is  not  it  ^  But  I  am  persuaded  that  the 
highest  consecration  of  marriage  is  in  the  joint  en- 
durance of  suffering  by  husband  and  wife. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  in  pain  our  hearts  soften  towards  one 
another. 

AUBIN. 

And  more  than  that,  our  spirits  are  sublimed. 

MARHAM. 

Does  not  talking  weaken  you,  Oliver  ? 

AUBIN. 

No  ;  it  is  a  litde  relief  from  pain,  uncle.  O 
pain,  pain  !*  I  love  all  men  more  tenderly  for 
suffering  with  them.  And  Jesus, — he  is  my 
Saviour,  by  the  form  of  God  he  is  in,  by  his  wis- 


EUTHANASY.  497 

dom  and  power  ;  but  it  is  by  his  crown  of  thorns 

he  is  my  brother  ;  and  it  is  by  his  suffering  with 

me,  that  I  have  the  feeling  of  God's  being  my 
Father. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  Ohver,  you  know  that  suffering  is  the  will 
of  God  ;  and  that  without  it  even  the  Captain  of 
our  salvation  could  not  have  been  made  perfect. 
It  is  what  we  are  all  bprn  to  ;  and  some  of  the 
best  of  us  to  the  most  of  it. 

AUBIN. 

My  thoughts  are  in  hospitals,  where  men  lie  in 
agony  ;  and  at  sea,  where  men  drown  ;  and  in 
Austrian  prisons,  where  patriots  rot  away  their 
lives  ;  and  in  what  were  the  dungeons  of  the  In- 
quisition ;  and  in  what  was  the  Roman  circus  ;  and 
by  bedsides,  where  young  husbands  and  wives  are 
parting  ;  and  in  places  where  the  tender-hearted 
are  helplessly  wronged.  And  to  all  this,  —  to  this 
suffering  from  one  another,  and  from  the  elements, 
and  from  disease,  and  from  death,  —  we  men  have 
been  made  subject,  though  not  willingly.  O,  no  ! 
O  God,  no  !  But  thou  art  thyself  the  reason  of 
it ;  and  thou  hast  done  it  in  hope.  And  it  is 
bondage  that  ennobles  us  by  our  passing  through 
it ;  for  so  we  come  to  the  glorious  liberty  of  thy 
children. 

MARHAM. 

You  are  easier  now,  I  hope,  Oliver. 
32 


498  EUTHANASY. 

AUBIN. 

O,  yes  !  it  is  subsiding,  the  pain  is.  But  I  am 
much  better  than  yesterday,  and  in  a  day  or  two  I 
shall  be  nearly  well  again. 

MARHAM. 

What  book  is  that  behind  your  pillow  ?  It 
makes  you  smile. 

AUBIN. 

It  is  Martin  Lutherls  Table-Talk.  And  I 
was  thinking  of  what  Luther  said  one  August 
afternoon,  when  he  and  his  Catharine  lay  ill  of  a 
fever:  —  '*  God  hath  touched  me  sorely,  and  I 
have  been  impatient.  But  Qod  knoweth  better 
than  we  ourselves  whereto  it  serveih.  Our  Lord 
God  doth  like  a  printer,  who  setteth  the  letters 
backwards :  we  see  and  feel  well  his  setting,  but 
we  shall  see  the  print  yonder,  in  the  life  to  come. 
In  the  mean  time  we  must  have  patience."  It  is 
quaintly  but  very  well  said  ;  is  it  not  ? 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  it  is. 

AUBIN. 

Great  sufferers  in  this  world  are  not  very  rare, 
and  so  are  no  wonder  to  us  ;  but  our  human  mis- 
eries are  mysteries  to  the  angels,  and  things  they 
desire  to  look  into.  How  the  more  ancient  sons 
of  God  had  their  birth,  there  is  no  knowing.  But 
some  of  them,  perhaps,  grew  up  to  their  high 
estate  slowly,  and  surely,  and  unerring'y,  and  like 


ETJTHANASY.  499 

the  full  moon,  when  she  rises  from  behind  a 
grove,  and  goes  up  the  sky,  in  a  quiet  night.  O, 
to  some  of  them,  what  a  sight,  what  an  awe, 
must  be  the  growth  of  a  soul  in  this  world  ! 
There  are  some  of  the  sons  of  God,  of  an  age 
with  the  morning  stars,  and  older,  perhaps  ;  and 
their  growth  was,  for  the  lime  of  it,  like  the  shap- 
ing of  our  earth.  But  the  lifeUme  of  a  man  is 
only  a  small  part  of  the  duration  of  an  oak,  an 
olive,  or  a  cedar-tree.  And  what  some  spirits 
have  been  ages  growing  up  to,  man  has  to  achieve 
in  a  few  years 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  but  not  unhelped  ;  and  to  begin  wuh, 
made  but  little  lower  than  the  angels,  but  still  a 
wonder  to  them,  and  a  mystery,  on  account  of  his 
difForent  creation. 

AUBIN. 

And  what  a  strange  appearance  he  must  be  in 
their  spiritual  eyes  !  —  free,  most  free,  and  yet, 
invisibly  to  himself,  hung  about  with  the  chains  of 
necessity  ;  with  the  hand  of  God  always  offered 
him,  and  yet  with  the  thunder  of  God  bursting 
upon  him  from  time  to  time,  out  of  the  gathered 
clouds  of  adversity  ;  most  mortal,  and  most  cer- 
tainly immortal  ;  a  creature  of  a  will,  now  fleshly, 
now  spiritual,  and  now  at  last  the  same  with  the 
will  of  God.  But,  O,  it  is  a  good  man  suffering 
must  be  the  wonder  of  many  a  heavenly  dweller  ; 


500  EUTHANASY. 

he  having  himself  been  formed  through  another 
discipHne  than  that  of  endurance,  perhaps.  And 
when  he  hears  of  earthly  agony,  he  cannot  but 
learn  it  calmly  and  cheerfully,  and  therefore  also 
with  holy  wonder,  as  to  why  this  lower  creation 
has  been  made  to  groan  and  travail  in  pain  togeth- 
er. O,  there  are  heavenly  spirits,  to  whom  the 
knowledge  of  our  righteous  sufferers  must  be 
more  prophetic  of  creative  newness  than  a  voice 
would  be,  if  heard  calling  down  the  depths  of 
infinity,  to  let  new  worlds  be  started.  Yes, 
Paul,  yes  !  Thy  Lord  and  Master,  and  mine,  — 
if  we  suffer  with  him,  we  shall  be  also  glorified 
together. 


EUTHANASY.  501 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Ah !  happy  spirits  that  behold 

The  King  in  love  divine, 
And  see,  beneath  your  floor  of  gold 

The  stars  and  planets  shine;    • 
The  dim  abysses  of  the  air. 
And  earth's  green  orb  revolving  there. 

Each  hath  his  proper  meed  above 

For  actions  nobly  done ; 
But  love  that  can  another  love 

Makes  ever  that  her  own ; 
Each  hath  his  own  peculiar  good, 
But  shared  by  the  whole  brotherhood. 

Petbu  Damianus. 

MARHAM. 

The  righteous  will  differ  from  one  another  in 
glory,  as  the  stars  do.  This  we  know.  Now 
may  not  this  imply  that  they  will  be  in  separate 
places,  —  in  regions,  some  more  and  some  less 
happy  ? 

AUBIN. 

I  do  not  think  it  does.  To  every  one  the 
spiritual  world  will  be  according  to  what  his  spir- 
it is. 

MARHAM. 

I  do  not  understand  you,  Oliver. 

AUBIN. 

Is  this   earih  the  same  thing  to  all  us  earthly 


502  EUTHANASY. 

dwellers  ?  Is  not  it  one  thing  to  one  man,  and 
another  to  another,  and  a  third  thing  to  a  third 
man  ?  Is  not  it  thousand-fold  and  million-fold  ? 
To  one  beholder,  the  earth  is  a  daily  revelation 
of  God  ;  while  another  man  is  so  mere  a  mer- 
chant, that  the  earth  is  to  him  the  wide  floor  of 
a  place  of  exchange  ;  and  the  firmament  is  only 
the  high  roof  of  it.  There  are  gluttons,  to  whom 
the  world  is  only  a  fish-pond,  a  poultry-yard,  a 
stall  for  fattening  cattle  in,  and  a  kitchen  garden  ; 
and  to  these  men,  the  seasons,  as  they  change, 
suggest  only  thoughts  of  what  fresh  dishes  may 
be  had.  There  are  wretched  persons  in  London, 
to  whom  the  world  is  simply  a  place  for  street- 
crossings  to  be  swept  in.  One  man  is  only  a 
farmer,  and  only  more  cunning  than  one  of  his 
oxen  ;  while  another  is  a  poet,  as  well  as  a  far- 
mer ;  and  another  is  a  father,  as  well  as  being 
a  poet  and  a  farmer  ;  now  these  three  persons 
see  the  world  in  very  different  lights.  On  ac- 
count of  his  health,  one  man  as  he  walks  the 
earth  feels  it  under  him  like  the  floor  of  an  ever- 
lasting home ;  and  another,  because  he  is  ill, 
stands  on  it  like  a  gravestone ;  while  anoth- 
er, who  is  hopeful  as  well  as  dying,  feels  the 
earth  under  him  like  a  broad  stepping-stone  to 
heaven. 

MARHAM. 

For  the  dissatisfied  man,  all  life  is  unsatisfac- 


EUTHANASY.  '  503 

tory  ;  and  for  one  that  is  contented,  the  world  is 
full  of  comforts. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  and,  for  the  cheerful  nian,  even  the  east- 
erly  wind  is  musical  in  the  window-crevices,  and 
it  makes  solemn  anthems  for  him  in  the  woods. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  does.  And,  to  a  great  extent,  life  is 
what  we  think  it. 

AUBIN. 

Day  and  night,  and  every  moment,  there  are 
voices  about  us.  All  the  hours  speak,  as  they 
pass  ;  and  in  every  event  there  is  a  message  to 
us  ;  and  all  our  circumstances  talk  with  us  ;  but 
it  is  in  divine  language,  that  worldliness  misunder- 
stands, that  selfishness  is  frightened  at,  and  that 
only  the  children  of  God  hear  rightly  and  hap- 
pily. 

MARHAM. 

True,  Oliver,  true  ! 

AUBIN. 

It  is  many  things  to  its  many  dwellers  ;  this 
world  is.  It  is  a  home  ;  it  is  a  workshop  ;  it  is 
a  place  of  amusement  ;  it  is  a  school,  with  trouble 
and  pain  for  chief  teachers  in  ;  and  for  the  de- 
vout, it  is  a  church  to  worship  in  ;  and  for  them 
that  have  eyes  to  see,  it  is  the  wisdom,  and  the 
beauty,  and  the  love  of  God. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is. 


504  EUTIrANASY. 

AUBIN. 

So,  then,  if  this  world  is  to  us  what  we  think 
it,  the  next  may  be  to  us  just  what  we  are  fit 
for,  perhaps.  And  there  may  be  a  thousand  of 
us  stand  together  in  heaven,  and  every  one  of 
us  with  a  different  degree  of  glorious  feehng. 

MARHAM. 

But  we  shall  all  be  in  sight  of  God. 

AUBIN. 

But  not  all  in  the  same  full  sight.  For  now  do 
we  all  feel  God  about  us  the  same  ?  No.  And 
so  in  heaven,  there  may  be  one  eternal  look  of 
blessing  on  us  all,  and  we  all  feel  it,  but  not  alike. 

MARHAM. 

One  disciple  will  be  a  ruler  over  ten  cities,  and 
another  over  five.  This  rule  of  cities  is  not  to 
be  understood  literally,  of  course  ;  and  you  think 
it  is  figurative,  when  heaven  is  spoken  of  as  more 
than  one  city. 

AUBIN. 

Perhaps  it  is.  In  the  Revelation,  heaven  is 
said  to  be  only  one  city,  —  the  New  Jerusalem. 

MARHAM. 

So  it  is,  and  in  a  passage  not  incidentally,  but 
purposely,  descriptive  of  heaven. 

AUBIN. 

There  is  no  reason  why  we  should  not  expect 
men  more  and  less  rewarded,  men  of  many  ana 
few  talents,  to  be  together  hereafter.     According 


EUTHANASY.  505 

to  our  worthiness  of  heaven  will  be  our  enjoy- 
ment of  if  This  earth  is  only  an  occupancy  of 
some  seventy  years  for  us,  and  the  round  of  it  is 
only  some  few  tliousand  miles,  yet  it  is  a  differ- 
ent world  to  every  man  of  many  millions  in  it  ;  so 
that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  may  well  be  a  differ- 
ent place  to  every  one  of  its  gainers,  for  it  is  in- 
finite and  eternal.  It  will  be,  — yes  !  heaven  will 
be  what  we  feel  it,  what  we  are  ready  to  feel. 
And  our  feelings  are  much  in  our  own  making.  I 
cannot  will  my  head  to  be  a  storehouse  of  knowl- 
edge ;  but  my  heart  I  can  make  the  issue  of 
what  Hfe  I  please,  —  holy,  most  holy,  loving,  and 
hopeful,  if  I  choose. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  much  wisdom  comes  of  loving ; 
though  a  man  may  know  largely,  and  love  nothing. 

AUBIN. 

For  admission  into  heaven,  God  asks  of  us 
nothing  impossible.  We  have  a  law  to  keep,  — 
his  law.  True,  we  are  creatures  of  frailty,  and 
yesterday,  and  the  dust,  while  he  is  God  most 
high.  But  it  is  not  knowledge,  nor  the  perfec- 
tion of  service,  but  it  is  love,  that  is  the  fulfilling 
of  the  law,  —  the  love  of  the  law,  for  what  of 
God's  is  in  it, — the  love  of  God,  for  his  god- 
head's sake, — and  the  love  of  man,  for  what 
good  is  in  him,  or,  if  not  in  him  yet,  for  what  will 
be.      We   cannot  all  of  us   be  knowing,  nor  can 


506  EUTHANASY. 

any  of  us  know  very  much,  but  we  can  love,  and 
as  though  infinitely. 

MARHAM. 

Faith,  hope,  and  love,  these  three,  but  the 
greatest  of  these  is  love. 

AUBIN. 

The  greatest !  Yes,  it  is.  And  in  that  there 
is  all  comfort  for  them  that  hope  to  meet  again. 
Love  !  why  should  we  doubt  but  it  will  have  its 
objects  ?  for  that  faith  will  have  its,  we  are  sure  ; 
and  love  is  greater  than  faith.  O,  if  there  is  a 
heaven  for  our  faith,  there  are  friends  in  it  for 
our  love.  I  have  known  those  who  have  grown 
holy  through  thoughts  of  the  dead.  1  have 
known  one  who,  as  he  prayed,  always  felt,  as  it 
were,  the  presence  of  a  spirit  about  him,  —  one  of 
the  blessed  vanished.  And  it  was  in  her  spirit 
he  prayed,  and  was  earnest  in  prayer.  Another 
person  I  have  known,  to  whom  the  meeting  of 
her  husband  was  all  of  heaven,  beside  God  ;  for 
he  had  been  the  husband  of  her  soul,  as  well  as 
hor  youth,  and  they  had  suffered  much  together, 
but  she  much  more  by  herself.  We  are  saved 
by  hope,  and  some  of  us  by  the  special  hope  of 
being  with  our  friends  again.  So  that  if  there  is 
salvation  by  hope,  our  friends  whom  we  so  hope 
for  we  shall  certainly  have  again. 

MARHAM. 

We   are  not  to  sorrow  for  the  dead  as  those 


EUTHANASY.  507 

that  have  no  hope  ;  now  this  implies  our  know- 
uig  our  friends  hereafter  ;  because  our  grief  is 
for  their  having  been'  taken  from  us,  and  not  for 
their  having  been  taken  into  happiness. 

AUBIN. 

To  know  our  dear  friends  again  is  not  a  fan- 
tastical nor  an  unreasonable  wish  ;  it  is  a  hope 
that  is  quite  rational,  and  altogether  natural  to  us, 
as  loving  and  thinking  and  immortal  souls.  Our 
nature  is  not  our  own  making,  but  God's.  Our 
souls  are  made  so  as  to  long  and  hope  for  sight  of 
the  lost ;  and  so  naturally  do  they  do  so,  that  it 
is  as  though  God  made  them  do  it.  So  I  can- 
not doubt  our  having  our  friends  again. 

MARHAM. 

Nor  I ;  for  that  we  shall  be  with  ihem  hereafter 
is  often  implied  in  Scripture,  though  not  so  often 
said.  But  is  reunion  with  our  friends  so  certain 
as  you  think,  or  only  as  a  hope  of  the  soul  .'* 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle,  it  is,  as  long  as  God  is  God,  or 
till  we  see  creatures  falsely  made,  and  in  the 
fields,  the  woods,  and  all  over  the  world,  thirsting 
and  in  agony  for  a  liquid  that  does  not  exist,  and 
never  will.  God  would  never  have  let  us  long  for 
our  friends  with  such  a  strong  and  holy  love,  if 
they  were  not  waiting  for  us.  They  would  never 
be  all  heaven  to  so  many  of  us,  if  their  dear  faces 
were  not  as  sure  as  heaven. 


508 


EUTHANASY. 


MARHAM. 

So  one  would  think,  and  perhaps  not  without 
great  reason. 

AUBIN. 

This  universe  is  no  falsehood  ;  for  we  have  not 
found  it  so,  but  a  truth;  so  we  will  not  distrust 
those  purer  wishes,  which,  indeed,  are  prompt- 
ings of  our  nature.  We  long  to  see  and  know  our 
dear  friends  in  the  next  life  ;  and  so  we  shall  have 
thQm.  And  we  ought  not  to  fear  otherwise  ;  for 
we  ought  to  believe  better  of  God  than  to  do  that. 
But  suppose  it ;  the  friends  I  have  had,  I  am 
never  to  know  again;  so  it  is  God's  will, — his 
blessed  will, —  the  will  one  prays  may  be  done. 
That  Divine  will  is  better  than  my  wish  ;  it  is 
many  times,  a  thousand  times,  an  infinity,  better. 
Why,  now,  as  soon  as  I  say  heartily,  "  Thy  will 
be  done  in  this,"  at  once  I  feel  it  will  be  done, 
the  way  of  my  heart.  I  cannot  claim  to  know 
my  lost  friends  in  the  next  world,  nor  can  I  tell 
how  I  am  to  know  them  ;  but  as  soon  as  I  trust 
in  God  to  let  me  know  them,  if  it  be  his  good 
will,  then  I  do  not  doubt,  and  I  am  sure  of  their 
company.  O  the  peace  it  is  to  trust  in  God  ! 
Sometimes,  uncle,  I  think  I  will  never  reason 
about  the  future  at  all,  but  only  pray  God  his  will 
may  be  done. 

MARHAM. 

This  is    All    Souls'   Day,   Oliver.     It   is  not 


EUTHANA6Y.  509 

much  kept  now,  nor  hardly  remembered,  any- 
where, I  think.  But  when  1  was  a  boy,  the  chil- 
dren used  to  go  about  repeating  two  or  three 
verses  at  people's  doors. 

AUBIN. 

They  are  the  souls  that  have  been  in  this  world, 
and  that  are  now  out  of  it,  that  are  the  strength 
of  our  faith  in  the  world  to  come. 

MARHAM. 

You  mean,  it  is  their  waiting  us  in  the  next 
world  that  makes  it  less  shadowy,  and  more  real. 

AUBIN. 

Yes,  uncle.  And  there  are  some  greater  souls, 
the  very  thought  of  whom  is  an  increase  of  faith. 
Men  depart  this  world,  many  of  them  having 
cheated  it,  and  nearly  all  of  them  owing  it  largely. 
But  now  and  then  dies  one  who  has  made  the 
world  his  debtor,-  and  the  ages  of  the  world  his 
witnesses.  Such  a  man,  there  is  no  doubting,  is 
entered  into  the  joy  of  his  Lord,  and  into  a  rule 
like  that  over  many  cities.  Joy  to  him,  and 
thanks  !  Ay,  many  thanks  !  For  his  is  a  high 
estate  of  reward  ;  and  by  our  being  kindred  to 
him  in  soul,  however  distantly,  we  feel  certain  of 
some  happiness,  though  lower  than  his,  much 
lower,  perhaps.  O  Pascal !  thou  wert  pure  in 
heart  in  this  world,  and  now  thou  art  in  full  sight 
of  God.  This  I  feel  ;  and  by  this  feeling  I  am 
bold  to  trust  that  every  one,  who  has  lived  at  all 


510  EUTHANASY. 

akin  to  thy  purity,  will  be  purified,  so  as  at  last  to 
be  of  kin  with  thee  in  happiness.  O  John  Mil- 
ton !  thou  art  among  the  angels  and  the  seraphs, 
that  were  once  thy  glorious  song  ;  and  this  world 
is  dear  to  them,  for  what  thou  thyself  wert  in  it. 
O,  how  sublimely  dost  thou  move  in  heaven,  the 
love  of  saints  and  heroes,  and  spirits  multitudi- 
nous !  And  I,  —  I  feel  as  though  it  were  impos- 
sible for  me  to  be  shut  out  of  heaven  for  ever  and 
utterly,  even  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
dear  language  common  to  us  both. 

MARHAM. 

There  is  right  feeling  in  what  you  have  been 
saying.      But  I  am  not  sure 

AUBIN. 

Of  my  theology,  uncle  ?  But  I  am  myself  cer- 
tain of  its  soundness.  And  what  is  my  certainty  ? 
The  spirit  of  God.  For  it  testifies  within  me, 
that  my  love  of  the  good  and  the  great  is  predes- 
tination to  their  company,  earlier  or  later. 

MARHAM. 

The  love  of  the  best  and  greatest  is. 

AUBIN. 

You  mean  God. 

MARHAM. 

Yes,  and  I  mean  also  the  first-born  of  us 
creatures. 

AUBIN. 

Who   wore  our    nature    among    the    Jews  so 


EUTHANASY.  511 

grandly,  so  like  a  king  and  a  servant  both  ;  and 
vvho'se  heart  never  changed  from  what  it  was  in 
the  littleness  of  childhood,  while  out  of  his  manly 
mouth  proceeded  gracious  words  to  be  wondered 
at,  —  a  son  of  man  in  his  birth,  but  in  his  death 
the  Son  of  God,  —  Jesus  Christ,  through  whose 
life  as  a  man  humanity  itself  has  grown  divine. 
Through  his  spirit  in  my  spirit  does  my  spirit  feel 
itself  in  God.  And  so  glory  to  him,  over  angels 
and  seraphs,  and  in  his  exaltation  above  princi- 
paliues  and  powers  .  Glory  to  the  first-born  of 
us  brethren  !  Glory  to  him,  in  the  bosom  of  the 
Father  !  And  because  he  is  there,  and  I  know 
it,  I  am  myself  strong  to  trust  that  I  shall  see  it. 
''  Listen,  listen  !  "  says  my  heart  within  me. 
And,  O,  like  words  out  of  heaven  sounds  what  is 
wish  and  promise  both,  —  ''  Grace  be  with  all 
them  that  love  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  in  sincer- 
ity." And  it  is  with  them  ;  and  the  love  of 
Christ  will  be  the  sight  of  him. 


THE     END. 


a 


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